Evidence of What You Are

I opened the email.

Read it once. Didn't prevail

against what the screen was showing.

Read it again. Still the same.

The grade was there.

Proof I couldn't prepare

for. Official. Printed. Small.

Evidence I knew all along.

I'd known somewhere deep down.

But knowing isn't the same as the town

square version of it, written.

Seeing the number. Seeing me.

The grade was lower than I claimed.

Lower than I wanted. I'm ashamed.

This is the kind of person I am.

This is the proof on the screen.

I closed it. Opened it again.

Like maybe it would change. Then

it didn't. The grade stayed put.

This is what I am. This is what I'm not.