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I search for a diary in between physics and chemistry books, One that I hid for I wasn't supposed to be jotting down heartbreaks and emotions in black ink in my sloppy handwriting. It was always expected from me to be in love with numbers and numbers alone, And I was; just not enough.
My hands shake involuntarily during the treasure hunt, And I accidentally spill ink on some neatly written notes - Perhaps it was math, I didn't check - Having spotted the brown cover, I shut the door with a click.
There's not many blank pages left to write what I feel, So I first try to make sense of it.
Two digits - And perhaps two decimal points after - On a sheet of paper, Will decide my future, And tell whether I deserve to be somewhere I want to be, Or if I'll get tossed and thrown away like million others.
Am I being punished for not loving numbers enough?
My hands don't come to rest, And the ache in my chest doesn't seem to leave anytime soon.
I shut my eyes hoping I shut out my polished doubts, But they stay nonetheless.
My mother calls out my name from the kitchen, And I open my eyes, Only to discover A half-torn page marked with words In my own writing, Saying - "Will I paint the world green, Or such a dark shade of blue That it stops being one?"