And Yet, What Can I Do?

What can I do?
The numbers on the clock move, 10, 11, 12, 1, 2, 3
The pillow feels like stone beneath me.
The words, a constant loop in my mind.
-What did she call me?
-What did he say?
-Did I pass their tests?

They call it being smart.
It feels like a heavy weight.
Hands shoot up in the air.
Mine does too, always expected.
Always expected to know.
Always expected to shine.

What must it feel like, I wonder.
To walk through the school doors blank and new.
To sit in the back row.
To raise no hand, and feel no regret when the answer doesn't come.
Just to listen.
Just to learn.
Not to carry the whole world on a single desk.

The teachers are kind, understanding.
The peers are a storm.
They bring their gossip.
They bring their homework.
They ask for a key to every locked door.
And the night rolls in again.
Tossing.
Turning.
Grading, every second of the day, just to make sure my score is enough.

But what can I do?
It's the price I pay.
I open the books, read every page.
I study, long and hard, because I have to.
I score the top marks on every test.
I lift my hand, on cue.
I smile, I wave, I perform.

And yet, it's never enough.
The bar rises, higher and higher.
They expect perfection to look easy.
To outshine the rest, but never brag.
To lead the pack.
To keep the record clean.
To be a master, but remain a child.
To be brilliant, but robotic.

Anxiety climbs with every test.
Every glance. Every word.
How do I fix the unbreakable?
How do I pass the test of life?
How do I reach the edge of Perfection?

Why must I carry the weight?
Why must I break inside the noise?
Contradictions. Circles.
I close my eyes.
I open the book.
The clock ticks on.
But what can I do?