They’re downstairs talking about the mortgage

They’re downstairs talking about the mortgage

and how my math grade is a personal insult to the family,

like I’m failing just to watch them get red in the face.

My brother got a gold star for breathing,

so they’re buying him pizza while I’m up here

staring at the spot where my poster is peeling off the drywall.

My skin feels like it’s three sizes too small.

I keep picking at a chipped fingernail

until the jagged edge catches on the polyester bedspread,

a sharp, stupid tug that makes me want to scream.

Everything is a bruise. The way the floor creaks,

the way they look at me like I’m a broken appliance

they can’t find the manual for.

I’m just waiting for my life to actually start

instead of this long, shitty rehearsal in the dark.