I am a good student. Voted most likely to tryharder. Not voted most likely for fairytales, though I havebeen both hooded and wolfed. My honors thesis on the roleof motherlessness and love hunger brought the candiedhouse down.               I could’ve been valedictorian if the metricwas ardor and potential for transformation. I recognizethe chemical structure of oxytocin and how to calculatemy best chance for a free drink from across the room,and both have strong angles.               I know how it feels when that hormone unlatchesmy ribs, silks my legs. I don’t confuse that with lovebecause in each unit of intimacy, I enter slow. Adjustmy breath. Recognize the accusations that areconfessions.               I excelled in the serious ethics of kissing, howit makes the body more image than idea, but I admitthat sometimes I like to lick mezcal and grapefruit froma hero’s morally ambiguous mouth. I’m sorry.               That’s how I know I’m a successful candidate.The temptations. The failures. The ever afters of forgivenessI have already lived. For so long I offered others the loveI wanted to receive, the cursive letters and lost slippers.The balanced equations and checkbooks. Years of servicein the scales of care. Change my story. Accept me.