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Message to Readers

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September 17, 2020


I watch the minutes trickle by 
as if they were diamonds pricking the floor.

Faster, smarter, harder, better
every second not spent working wasted.
They call the churning mess productivity, but my mind cries out,
quietly suffering so I could be one step closer
to the Holy Grail of achievement 

I am not special.
I am ordinary, no -extra attached.
I was just lucky enough to afford a dozen extracurriculars and the finest tutors.
My parents expect no less - 
they came here with $20 in their pocket
and built their way up from nothing.
Happiness to them means success,
and they only know one way to achieve it.

Every time someone compliments me,
I feel the empty hollow in my chest
where a heart should be beating.
Could they see through my facade?
That I have no talent,
or quirk,
I just work until I feel like collapsing,
every movement forced, every moment spent in criticism,
pushing me deeper into a pit of guilt
I will never escape.

I am not new to hate:
I feel it when I look at the starved body in the mirror
when my eyes catch the dreaded red marks on the paper,
or the competitions I will never be good enough to win.
I created the Demon when my perfectionism demanded control.
It tears deep gashes through my soul,
its appetite never satisfied, constantly hungering for the extremes.

I want to be perfect,
a shining gem
and the pride of my family,
but each time I try, something shatters inside me.
And I realize:
even diamonds crack under pressure.

Hi! Please comment if you wish. Side note: the details about my family are not autobiographical but the rest is. I am in no way claiming this is nonfiction or a memoir.


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