the bus poem - part nine; math class

I loved you in math class,
where I was always better than you,
and it made me happy
that you cared just the right amount.
I loved you when we sat with our teacher before 9am
and she told me I would never be a writer,
and you told me I would.
Let’s see who is right in the end.
The only things that could possibly kill me
are fame, failure,
or my own rib cage
poking through shirts again.
I just want evidence of what you do to me.
I love you.
I’ll show you.
When you can see the shape of my heart
through my paper thin skin.
One small tear and I’ll let you climb in.