Why I am a Number and That's Not Good News

I still run from Maths.
But of course, now there's no skirting around the fact
that I am one of those Godawful 'problem's my kind spend their childhoods
running from. Worse, on a particularly pro-division day, I may also become the 'result' to that brain-belittling problem. Yes, Irony is Life's personal aphrodisiac.
On those days, I feel
alarmingly like a number. A fucking odd number with multiple multiples breathing down it's neck! Blah. So much for being the perfect math-retard.


Yes there is finally no skirting around the fact that I am a number.
But if it makes any difference at all, I am not just any number. I am

the sum of all your Tazos and your troubles.
the sum of your Ghazals and your indifference.
the sum of your Accent and your quite.
I am
(WinterYou + SpringYou), I am
(Youasyouwere) + (Youasyouwouldneverbe)
I am you and you and you over and over and
over again, 
as and as and
as I received you on
each of those numbered
grassy days,
okay?
I am an odd number.
Because you are an odd lover.
I am not your friend.
I am
you.

(Now I am you and you are
running.
I was so harsh on numbers.
I was so harsh on numbers.)