Breaking Point Poem by Eve Addol

my hand keeps shaking.
i know that, logically,
i should not be awake at 2: 35: 17 am in the morning.
i should not be perched over my goddamn textbook,
watching the words meld together like crushed charcoal.

but i push through the strain in my eyes,
and the lump in my throat.
this is necessary.

i was told on the first day of school
that i would be enlightened
with new ideas of art,
science,
literature,
and everything under the sun.

instead, i feel betrayed
and used
and utterly stupid.

i drop my pencil
again,
and again,
and again.

i want to grind it against my temple,
somehow stick the information into my brain,
like a warped lobotomy.

the air is thick in my lungs.
it clings to them,
like my insecurities do to the corners of my mind.

i exhale.
survey the room.
posters and trophies and medals.
plastic.
fake gold.

i was told all my life that i had a talent that could not be wasted.
so why am i never satisfied?

why,
why,
why.

i am better.
i will be better than the rest.
i will become the best of the best.

and so i do not stop
and subject myself to continuous heartbreak,
like the masochistic perfectionist that i am.

i pick up my pencil,
and underline another sentence,
digging my nails into my thigh
so that the sting keeps me awake.

i know-
later-
the blankets will be cold against my skin
(my tears will be colder)
and i will question why.
why academics mean more to me than my own happiness.

(i already know the answer.)