Lost Emails

Me getting myself together
is like sending an email
to the wrong professor.
I think I've gotten ahead,
turned every assignment in,
then the reply comes:
"I don't teach that class."

No one teaches a class
for me. I need to know
how to move on from the boy
in all my poems, to win over
someone I might love,
to not be afraid
of Tylenol.

I think I've made progress,
then I call that ex.
I'm still shaking, either
from the excitement or the
painkillers.
I can't tell.

 

Dinwiddie, VA