Month: November 2016

A ‘We’re closed’ sign

I’m afraid that I don’t really love you. Perhaps, I imagined the two of us pushing our legs near each other’s, under the dining room table. Your knees jutting  into my thighs slightly shifting the fabric of my skirt. Sometimes, I think I’m afraid of the days that come after you.

What will happen a spring, a summer, and a winter from now? I’ll trace your laughter on to the frosted window pane in my parent’s car. I’ll dream up your face, where if only I reach out…you are real. You are wrapped in brown packing paper carrying sticky rice, with pieces of fried fish. One day, I laughed into the wisps of your hair. Smoke waltzed in and out of the kitchenette.

I waited by the stove just so I could be warm. I don’t know if I love you yet. A part of me awaits this sinking gut feeling where it hurts too much not to say a word.Yet, look at how our whirlwind never touched.

I really want to miss the backbone of you as you walk out. Yet, somehow deep down I know that it’s not worth crying over another brief moment in time. You cloud me into feeling sorry that I loved you.


Self diagnosis: acute self sabotage 

Am I pretty? I hope one day when someone looks at me they seem something worth holding on to. She says all of this when she fixes her eyebrows in the mirror. Before walking out of her dorm, she fixes her shirt tucked into her skirt. Sucking in her stomach, a smile lends itself at the sunken in version of herself.

Am I annoying? Her eyes trace his shoulders as he disappears down the hallway. Sometimes she plants herself on the bench where he can see her. Today, I need to say hello, she thinks. One of her classmates sits down in front of her and strikes a conversation. This causes her to miss her chance to say hello into his brown skin.

Am I smart? She thinks back to when she finished her homework a week before it was due. Third grade set the bar too high. Now, she looks at the homework in her student planner, which she doesn’t finish until a few hours before her class starts. Participation points look like fumbling over basic sentences, and not making eye contact with anyone in your class. She’s butchered an analysis and skidded her way through a critique.

Am I good? Outstretched on her bed, she burrows her face into her blankets pretending to not hear her roommate get ready for class. She hopes that her roommate labels her a hard sleeper, and doesn’t stop to think for a moment how the girl is waiting for dead silence once the door shuts.

Barcodes for women

Sitting with men, you pull your knees in a little tighter under the bench. Compact and not obstructive, you become someone’s leftover suitcase; on the bus stop, bench, and conference room.

You do this with your eyes. If you keep the eyes down, fixated on the ground, the pen, the glass of water, or the corner of the screen; this interaction won’t bother you.

Hands in your lap; playing with an invisible string, finding your pressure points, and tracing the lines of your palm; you sit with a man. Please don’t let him say anything about your red dress, your “boy-hair cut,” or un-found smile.

Softly pulling at the skin around your knuckles, you ask a man where you should place yourself.

“Here – on the low shelf?”

“Eye-level for an accessible scan?”