I Am... Small

They say small numbers don't define you and they tell you that you can be whatever you want, disregarding the numbers but still, they ask

"How tall are you?"

They look at you, from head to toe, and always, they ask,

"How tall are you?" 

They condescendingly pat your head and pull out their bottom lip as if they're conversing with a newborn baby and they ask, 

"How tall are you?"

Never have I felt smaller when asked for the number I'm now bound to for the rest of my life. Sure, it's only height and appearance but is it really just height? Can't it also be a feeling? Feeling small has been what I've been feeling for as long as I can remember. Being small reminds me playing kickball in elementary school where students would move closer to me when I'm kicking the ball because they know I am small, therefore I am suddenly weak. Being small reminds me of feeling obligated to buy a shirt from my school that explicitly stated that I was a senior because I've been mistaken as someone ranging from the ages 12 through 14 far too many times. Being small reminds me of how weak and incapable everybody assumes I am. 

"How tall are you?"

It's human nature to take pleasure in proportion. In Vietnam, many people enjoy an equal meat to rice ratio. In America, we have the checks and balances system, which proportions the powers each government branch has. Even Goldilocks, the center of a children's fiction story, had to eat what was proportionate to her size. 

I, however, am an exception. This might be weirdly worded, but I am not proportionate. My intelligence does not match my size, my strength does not match my size, and my will to overcome whatever number I am bound to will not ever match my size. 

"How tall are you?"

Tall enough. 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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