98th percentile.
Intelligence: superior. I feel too young to be a prodigy. They steal words from my mouth and shove a pen into my hand. Tears shed on the lined paper as my school wins award after award. The very books that gave me an out are torn from my grasp, shoved into the spotlight in the spaces between paragraphs. I'm expected to dance for the sentences, how sure you are that I should.
I look Steven King in his eyes and shake his hand and I have never felt more useless. He laughed and agreed when I told him I absolutely despised his novel, but in a good way.
Sleeping pills described to a fourth grader, I chew my nail buds until they bleed out onto my tongue. I've learned to tolerate my atoms, as simultaneously as I have learned to hate my own hands. I'm told how lucky I am. I wish desperately to be haunted by simpler thoughts. Numbers jump and trade places in my vision, equations blurry before my eyes even begin to water.
dys-cal-cu-li-a / ,(/ˌdɪskælˈkjuːliə/), /
NounPHSYCIATRY
1: Severe difficulty in making arithmetical calculations, as a result of brain disorder.
"Stop, please." I beg under my breath as hot tears soak my cheeks, eyes tired and hands pulling desperately in my hair. I shakily reach for my blunt and bring it to my lips, hoping to god it will cause my brain to slow, even for a second. I turn to what used to soften the sharp edges of myself and pick up my notebook. But its been stolen from me, and often sitting at my desk all I can do is try not to throw up.
Most people nowadays think I'm plain stupid, what with the amount of pot I'm smoking and adrenaline I'm chasing to block out the noise. Hemingway incarnate, does art always require such demise? I destroy myself over and over and the words I've always wanted to say they still do not come. I'm too young to be a fucking prodigy.
