They told me A was for “amazing.”

But mostly it was for “acceptable.”

And B?

That was the border between love and lectures.

Anything lower, and I’d better have a good excuse,

like being dead.

Even then, maybe just a C.

Because funerals aren’t until the weekend.

And school?

School is eternal.

I’ve turned myself into checkboxes.

Rubrics.

Rubber-stamped assignments.

A walking bubble sheet,

Filling in answers I’m not allowed to question.

I stay up ‘til 2 AM memorizing facts

I’ll forget by Friday.

But nobody grades retention,

Only results.

Only the numbers.

I am a 94.5.

Not a person.

Not a poet.

Not tired.

Not anxious.

Not sobbing at my desk with a cramp in my hand

And a voice in my head whispering:

“Do more. Be more. Be best.”

My worth fits in ten-point increments.

If I drop a percent,

So does my value.

So does their approval.

So does the light in my mother’s eyes

When she says, “You’re smart.”

Because smart only counts

When it’s on paper.

They say school is preparation for life.

But it’s just prep for panic.

How to look fine while drowning.

How to compete with your friends and still call it collaboration.

How to give 120%

When you have already given 100, it breaks you.

Because this system doesn't grade kindness.

It doesn't mark creativity with extra credit.

It doesn't reward the kid

Who helped someone else understand

Instead of studying for themself.

We are taught to achieve,

Not to learn.

To excel,

Not to rest.

To perform,

Not to exist.

And I’m so tired of being performance art.

So tired of chasing letters

That don’t spell happy.

Maybe one day,

We’ll write our own report cards.

Circle “present” because we showed up for ourselves.

Underline “growth” in our own messy handwriting.

Highlight joy in yellow,

because yellow feels like breathing.

I’ll show up

Because my worth isn’t weighted

By decimals or deadlines.

Because I am learning to be whole

Even when the world only sees

Half-points.

So no,

don’t act like the grade means you know me.

You never scored the panic attacks,

never corrected the cost of perfection.

You wanted numbers.

I gave you blood.

And still,

you marked it wrong.