I never asked my mom for help with homework.
No one ever needed to remind me to study for a test.

My siblings called me the “smart” one,
and my teachers promised I would be someone.

But I don’t think that was ever true.
I don’t think they ever saw how lonely I was.

Being good at this one thing,
this one, single thing,
made me enough.

Enough for their attention,
enough for their praise.

They never noticed the effort,
the sleepless nights spent cramming, crying,
the desperation to stay ahead. 

Each frantic scribble etched a battle against exhaustion.

If I didn’t have this,
then I didn’t have a n y t h i n g.

My worth was tethered to academic validation,
so I hid every slip, every stumble.
I couldn’t let them see.

But the day came,
and I failed.

Failed at everything I thought I was meant to be.
Picking up scattered notebooks and pencils,
the remains of my pursuit of perfection.

Lost,

because there wasn’t an A
attached to my name.