In second grade, 

we learnt about fractions. 

 

My double-ponytailed self was fascinated 

by how two halves could come together 

to become a whole. 

How, by adding the right numbers, 

we could create perfection. 

 

That was when I became a romantic. 

 

It has been a while to that day, 

When I first thought about halves and wholes. 

About how we are all just fragments. 

Forever in search of the right numbers. 

Forever chasing perfection. 

 

In sixth grade, 

we learned about imaginary numbers. 

 

About how it is impossible to pin-point

where some numbers lie, 

and about how 

some numbers don’t really exist at all. 

 

That day, my universe of halves and wholes 

fell

apart. 

 

I was terrified 

that the right number for my equation

was non-existent –

that the arithmetic I sought

was doomed. 

Destined to be incomplete.  

 

It has been a while to that day, 

when I first thought about jinxed calculations. 

About how we are all just believers, 

playing Russian Roulette with faith 

and writing letters to fate. 

Forever on a quest. 

Forever refusing to quit. 

 

In eleventh grade, 

I gave up mathematics. 

 

I no longer have 

nightmares

of number-lines 

shape-shifting into nooses.  

 

I hold hands with myself 

as I walk down the street. 

I go to sleep with the curtains drawn, 

so I can’t read what’s written in the stars.  

 

This is to say, 

I have started dismantling

my childhood universe. 

 

This is to say, 

I have discarded of childhood mathematics. 

 

This is to say, 

I have stopped believing. 

 

This is to say, 

I have started seeing

myself

as whole.

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