my memory is better than i thought it was evidently

I am a mere
statistic.
All that my past troubles
amount to is
a number
cleanly printed in textbooks
by perfect people
who only see us
like they see the crescent moon:
just a sliver,
two-dimensional.

I am more
than a statistic.
The time I entered the cafeteria
and felt eyes that couldn’t be seen
turning toward me
as my legs refused
to carry me to my seat,
the sudden urge to melt away,
cannot be crammed
into ink the shape
of a percent sign.

Cold, shaking hands
and throbbing lightheadedness
cannot be felt by reading
a ten-letter word.
Crying was always better
than static thoughts
and finding no hard evidence
because textbooks only list
clinical measurable symptoms,
but my story
cannot be measured
by a list.

I am more
than a statistic.
I am more
than an attention-getter,
a generalization,
words.
I am alive.
I am a continuing story.
I am up and down and progress.
I am memories and baggage and scars.
I am every moment,
every part of each moment,
every dimension.
I am more.