What teenager sits at the bottom of the stairs

Counting the shoes at the door,

Counting the scratches on the shelf?

Writing crappy poems because

_my english teacher said to try harder._

2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14, 16, 18, 20, 22 shoes.

11 pairs.

Counting to 22 does not fit with the _rhythm_

of what they call 'poetry',

but these numbers are _God._

I am the sum

of every rule book I have read,

and the rules govern me wholly.

9th grade maths is not good enough.

_I am not good enough_

Until the rulebook knows me by heart.

By _heart, _they say, the poets write.

By brain, they claim, that I was born.

By soul, I know that I have none.

By _body, _flesh rejects your touch.

I am created

from logic and imitation.

I am made

without control.

Last night I washed my hands seven times,

and got told off for wasting water.

I was embarrassed enough to resist the _compulsion;_

Logic dictates I am therefore a fake.

I feel dirty.

_Read a book,_

and I will rip it to shreds in the process.

But I am a reader;

I am a poet.

Touch me and I will _wash my hands_ of you,

only when you cannot see me.

I will scrub my skin,

and in doing so,

flush my blood of you.

My bookshelf is hollow.

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13,

14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24 books.

Eleven-thousand, three-hundred and fifteen pages.

I cannot read any of the titles.