I do what I am supposed to do.

I brush my teeth and go to class

and wear clothes that are tight

but not too tight,

say “I’m sorry” when a stranger bumps into me.

I follow rules.

I try to stand out but not to shock.

To swear enough to be cool,

but not crude.

To keep secrets but not to lie.

I listen to pop music to keep up,

and to alternative music to be

the right kind of unique.

I do what I am supposed to do.

I get good grades. Really good grades.

I look for internships and wear high heels.

I audition. Get called back.

I am modest. I had help, it was a fluke, unexpected.

On time to work. Polite to the boss.

I’m happy to do it.

I do what I am supposed to do.

With peers, with professors.

My problems are not big problems.

In comparison, not problems at all.

I’m blessed, lucky, privileged.

My happiness is my happiness,

My gratitude insufficient,

And my anger unfounded.

Unfounded.

I do what I am supposed to do.

It makes me rage.

But words can be a help,

a spark, a salve.

Shared or secret.

Read or written.

Something for myself.

No matter what I am supposed to do

I do it.