Poetry by Dythandra

the measure of me

It's that time again...
Standardized tests.

I know why they want to "meet" with me
I am a curiosity--they've seen my scores
All 90-something percentile
Classic "underachiever".

"Are you bored?"
Not when I picture you after school,
Seeing what I did to your car

"Are you taking something that...
Uhm, interferes with your abilities?"
I just twitch a bit, and then shake my head.

"Are there problems... at home?"
I shiver and look up
Like a wounded kitten.
"No," I stammer, unconvincingly

I toy with them--I could just as easily
Score within the norms.
But why pretend to fit?

Gifted programs, remedial classes,
Even home schooling--that was a short lived
Experiment in mutual torture

Then there was parochial school
The poor priest, so surprised,
I could see the fear when he realized
His holy water didn't hurt me.

Now I'm back, and yet another well meaning authority figure
Shakes his head and wonders what makes me tick.

A phone call; he steps out
The file is open--how can I resist:

"...exhibits sociopathic tendencies...
...potential arsonist...very dark...moody..."
And then a list, of all the stress leave
Attributed to moi.

He comes back--doesn't want me to leave,
but really, what can he do?
Better than he have lain awake worried
About what I may do next.

"Lovely flowers in your hair" he remarks,
Offering his hand--so formal as he stands.
"What are they?"

"Oh those?" I smile--he thinks me normal for a moment.

"I got them from my garden. They're... columbine."

I can't let my file get boring, after all.