The Thing About Falling

I am failing for the first time, 
speeding towards the ground.
Unlike Icarus,
I recognize what burns me.
I used to be excellent at calculus.
Now, I lie. 
on the floor of my room 
studying the bodies 
of my father’s fathers.
Not that I am the best at this one,
I barely survive my bones.
Is this not the only thing I know best—
maneuvering disasters?
I have a scar 
for each time I sought perfection,
the one on my right index 
for calling my aunt’s food tasteless,
then a quack nurse 
put a needle there without anesthetic. 
Now, I identify with this twitch 
every time I hold a pen.
 As if screaming to the world,
see me, see me, see me here.
Here, where no one does.
I used to be good at enduring pain. 
Now, I wail. Naturally, 
there are things we are made for,
dying especially.
But if I have learnt 
anything from my dead,
it is that the knife comes 
ready with blood.
To refuse to die, I must turn the blade.