I have a D+ in chemistry.
I have a D+ in chemistry, despite doing my best work throughout the quarter.
I have a D+ in chemistry, so I hired a tutor.
I have a D+ in chemistry, so I obsessed over it for a while.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but my hard work continues.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but the laughs of me and my friends still fill my school halls.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but my scars remain healed.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but I can still listen to music late at night, while the summer air fills my room through an open window.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but the wind still hits my face when I step outside, lifting my hair from my shoulders, the sun wiping my cheek.
I have a D+ in chemistry, but the moon still shines behind the clouds, reminding me she’s still there.
I have a D+ in chemistry, so I’ll do better.

I've never felt second best,
Being a twin, you get asked a lot of questions:
"Who's older?"
"Who's smarter?"
"Who's the favorite?"
But you never gave into them:
"They were born at the same time"
"They both have straight A's"
"I love them both so much"
What's changed?

I've learned that I'm younger,
Only by a second—a moment,
My birth certificate bears a different time,
Yet we still tell people we're the same age
Because the difference doesn't define us.

Now I'm starting to fail my classes,
Not a single A to my name anymore.
You must think of her as the smarter one,
While I'm the one who can't be bothered:
No homework, no studying, no perfect SAT score.
Have things changed because you've finally chosen a favorite?
And of course, it's her.

I've grown to hate myself,
So it's not surprising you do too.
You see yourself in me and loathe it,
Support no longer feels like support
Because you can't imagine I'd be anything like you:
Of course I'm not sad,
Or anxious enough to pass out,
Of course I'm faking when I'm throwing up
So you'll send me to school.

But when she wants to stay home,
You shower her with love,
Buy her favorite foods,
While you'd take mine away to keep me thin.

When I want to disappear,
I'm still second best.
You'll cry, but still yell,
Making me feel guilty for wanting you to care.

I'll keep my head down—float with the majority,
And try to live with being second priority.
But know that I am more than your reflection;
More than a twin, more than second best.
I am my own person, worthy of love,
Even if you can't see it yet.

Every single sunny day,
There's a magic place,
A brown bench by the baseball fields.

Such a basic grace,
When the sun shines down,
You and I walk the way.

Right on down to our favorite seat,
Whether its summer, whether its spring,
I can hold you all the same.

Wake up in the morning,
Grab my cap, tie my shoes,
Get in the car, can't wait to see you.
<3
Get dropped off,
Walk into the school,
Wait in the cafeteria for you!
<3<3
Wish you didn't forget your hoodie,
Grab mine, I don't need it,
Get some breakfast and go, I love you so.
<3<3<3

I’m sorry I got that question wrong.
I’m sorry I can't move on.

I’m sorry I'm not smarter.
I’m sorry I couldn't be stronger.

I’m sorry how I take on as much as I can
only to ***** it all up.
And I’m sorry I couldn't find the man
inside my empty cup.

I’m sorry I waste my time away
trying to find a dreamy way
to happiness
when of course,
there's no such thing.

I’m sorry I don't talk much anymore
or that I let on how my heart is sore
from all the roughness
and how it keeps beating
without a source.

In fact, I must confess,
I am dying under boundless stress.
Each day my depression attacks,
reopening these countless cracks.
So many times have I walked this hall
feeling so weak and so small,
bracing for a final fall
just waiting till my lifeline snaps,
like any second I’ll collapse,
but of course I never do,
I know better than that.

But if I were to give my final words today,
this is exactly what I would say.
But that I won't undergo
I suppose you’ll never know

how sorry I am that there's nothing I’m on top of
and for dormantly letting endless piles of work tower above.

And how I’m sorry for caring more than I should
and letting myself be so consumed.

I’m sorry for impeding the impedeless
and for hoping in the hopeless.

And finally,
most especially,
I am sorry
for wanting to be so important
and that I became nothing but torment.
I am sorry for wanting so hard to be heard
when it's clear I’ll only ever come third.
I’m sorry for thinking I could matter
or that I could make things better.
I am sorry for believing
that I could amount to anything
at all.

I think I'll go across the sea,
And study music in Italy.
Leave with only the clothes on my back,
My jacket pocket full of little literatures.

Or should I study English arts,
In England?
I doubt I'd read much,
There's not a lot to see in a London fog.

Red for economics,  
green for English,  
white for ICT
your files stacked in my hands,  
pages filled with notes in your careful script
I never needed to ask; you just lent them
as if sharing knowledge meant sharing a part of you. 

A classroom of seventeen,  
but I only counted one.
I traced your desk with my fingertips,  
opened your pencil case just to see  
what colors you carried,  
what secrets lived between the erasers and sharpies.  

We worked in groups,  
side by side but never quite close enough.  
I stole glances when I thought you wouldn’t notice,  
but maybe you always did.  
Maybe that’s why you smiled so easily,  
why you never pulled away.  

Years have stretched between us,  
but high school still lingers like a cozy
dream  
I wake from too slowly.  
Your files, your laughter, your presence in the last row
they live in me
as if time forgot to take them when it took you.

She was August, I was February
months apart, but tied by the same number
Eleven, like a thread linking distant days,  
like Pepero sticks she loved,  
thin, sweet, and gone too fast.  

She was the girl who handed me slippers in the rain,  
who lent me her red, green, and white files,  
who sat in the third row while I sat in the first,  
but somehow, we always found our way to the same place.  

She was fries on one eventful canteen day,  
laughing about weight neither of us really cared about.  
She called herself Snorlax,  
but to me, she was Eevee  
full of possibilities, always shifting, always bright.  

She sent me memes, told me to wake up,  
to sleep early
to try again tomorrow
She saw Natsume in me
though I never watched Gakuen Alice to know why
Maybe she saw the quiet fire I never named.  

She was there,  
and then she wasn’t.  
Distance, time, then silence
life pulled us apart like a ribbon unraveling.  
But somewhere
in the space between eleven and eleven
she still lingers.