There is a boy who sits across from me at school
and one day our teacher told us to discuss some
part of our lives with our table groups, and when I
gave my response, he rolled his eyes and exhaled,
“boring” as if he were fucking Gordon Ramsay
judging me on my cooking.
See, sometimes I work so hard at making sure my
life is normal enough to be able to take out of a
children’s book, complete with white picket
fence and all.
And maybe being “different” and “hipster”
is the norm these days but once someone claims
to be into things like Taylor Swift and Twilight
they are immediately put on a level below par,
because all the different kids just love to look
down their noses.
There is a trend going around facebook these
days where people list their 12 favourite albums
and I am seeing lists of bands formed in the
basements of run down homes and I am not sure
whether to be ashamed that I do not know who
this dark and mysterious sounding name is.
The thing is, I hate black and white movies. I hate
old movies in general. I hate punk rock or anything
too loud. I hate anything too complicated or
depressing. I hate cynicism and pessimists. I hate
when people try to philosophize the living shit
out of everything.
And maybe that makes me an insignificant part of
a whole that is much too common to be good
enough. But I know who I am and I know that
the things I like do not define my worth.
So while half of you are off listening to half-
formed bands and commenting on the state of
society, I will be watching The Notebook for the
eighth time. I will talk about cupcakes and who wore
what at the Oscars. I will talk about insignificant
things because they make me happy, and that is
something significant. I will not be ashamed for the things
I love, because the difference between two individuals
is not constructed from the things they do; but rather,
the way they treat others.
See, you could like the obscurest band in the world
and still be terrible. You could talk the deepest shit
in the world and still be despicable.
And that, to be honest, says more about your
character than who’s singing to you through plastic
It’s all well and good that I am
sitting here, feeling like I can
conquer the world; that I can be
better; get better.
But when I come home, I am arriving
to jagged lines that cut through my
thoughts, trampling through the
towers I made to be stronger
because somehow, they believe I
can turn myself on and off like a
water tap and I don’t know how to
tell them I am a waterfall, that my
thoughts are a force of nature
rumbling through the pit of my
stomach and coursing through my
veins, that the few times I’ve tried to
be better, they have knocked on my
problems like I am a diseased clown
made to sustain a couple of laughs.
And you know, they say, that I am a
drama queen, flipping through the
lenses of pain to see which fits best,
but they did not see me sitting alone in
a dark room crying because I decided
not to use a blade, or staring at laxatives
then throwing it away, or eating my
lunch for once even though it took me
five minutes to take the first bite.
They do not see the battles I wage on
myself every day
because to them, I have lost every single
war and am on the path to self-destruct.
I just want to tell them that
there are fights I have won, and though they may
not be all-out wars, but instead pub brawls
that leave me worse for wear, at least
I am trying my hand in something that might
one day help me conquer the real thing.
I might have left my resolve behind yesterday
because I was running on too little sleep to
carry such a heavy weight
but that does not mean I will leave it today.
And maybe I have forgotten how to eat,
to sleep, to breathe, but I am just relearning
how to love myself again.
So if I am made to be a stumbling block,
tripping over live wires that shock me
into a series of recovery relapse recovery
do not look at me like I am a failure. I am
building myself from the things that are meant
to hold together even when the ones that
are meant to keep you strong are tearing you
y is a function of x
and every element of x is related to some
element in y
see, but here’s the thing
every input will only produce one output
but two inputs may have the same output
i do not understand.
he rakes his fingers through his hair and
stares at me.
okay, see here, i have an example. every
time you fall in love with a boy, you will
end up with the pieces of a broken story
in your hands. sometimes, you will fall
in love with different boys and end up
with the same story over and over.
wow. i say
you’ve just graphed love into a math
he smiles and the corners of his eyes
math is a universal language. love is
look at the girl who replays her stories
even though she’s been to the same ending
more times than she can count
i look down at my feet
he tips my chin up and stares into my eyes
look here, i could graph her entire story
and make predictions about the negative slope
of her successes in love based on the rise and run
of each attempt at a relationship.
but i could never prove it the way you prove
equations because the thing is, she will one
day defy theories and hypotheses; her slope
will spike up, and the math will not matter
but see here, there are some things that can be
calculated. one day, some lucky boy will
measure the curve of her neck, the angle of
her smile, the slope of her collarbones.
one day, some boy will take a pencil and draw
out the constellations in her freckles,
make graphs on when she’ll laugh again,
and exactly how long they can wait
till their lips collide in space.
one day, he will teach her how to make love
into a language that is all their
see here, he tells me
love is beyond the mathematical
love is beyond the universal.