Thursday, April 3, 2025

Fuck you, AP Science! [still resentful 25 years later]

Where does love come from?
It must be born from some fragile core,
like the yolk of an egg broken by my careless finger,
its shell dissolved in a vinegar bath—
a lesson on osmosis and change, taught by Mrs. Powers,
who marked me with a D- and wrote,
"Needs to be more patient."

But resentment grows differently,
from expectation—
like the assignment to catch twenty-five species of bugs,
I.D. them, mount them, in one month.
Nothing in my life had lasted
a whole month. So in the final four days,
I scrambled, gluing ants together—
Frankenstein's monster, but with bugs—
trying to make them look like flies, like gnats,
and failed. I was never asked back
to Advanced Placement Science
the next year, because I
"lacked organization."

The next year, sadness took root.
Envy came along, too.
While I was told to try harder,
until I cried,
the girls with A’s suddenly had boyfriends, no time—
I was told it was "just jealousy", but what I felt
was a broken heart, realizing I would never be theirs.


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