My hands grip the wheel
And under my feet, the engine moans with unwillingness.
I’m trying to stop
But my car pushes me on.
It pushes past red flashing lights and angry octagons.
All the things telling me to brake,
They’re pushed aside as my car glides down empty county roads.
I’m flying in my 2001 Chevy Impala.
I'm flying past the boundaries of my past.
I'm flying to the hope of a bright future.
Study, laugh, live.
Study, eat, live.
Study, eat, sleep.
Study, sleep.
Study.
People have told me who to be.
People have told me what I want.
What if I can’t fit into a mold?
What if I’ll never be good enough?
What if I kill myself trying?
Maybe my tombstone will have an inscription of my grades and a little, “A pleasure to have in class” handwritten at the bottom in cursive lettering.
What if I’m more than my grades?
What if I’m more than the classes I've chosen?
What if I’m more than what the teachers have to say to my parents?
I wish none of that really mattered.
But I need good grades to get me by,
I need good grades to make me fly.
Good grades get me into college.
Good grades prove that I didn't die an uneducated worthlessness.
I look down at the chemistry textbook I have in my passenger seat.
And I glare.
The smiling scientist on the cover throws me a question,
“Why not?”
I roll down my window,
Pick up my book.
And I pitch it.