meaningless.

Your eyes are white
Round drops of snow
Like I drop her name
In casual conversation
Because I hate the way you
Ask
“Are you going to banquet?”
As if it means
“Do you have a boyfriend?
And I wonder if the whiteness
Is really blindness
(no, my facebook relationship status is not a joke mr.—fill in the blank—)
But then he asks
And I tell
And the vice president of student services
(don’t I pay your bills?)
Wants me to know that
She knows gasp
That I’m gay
so I pull out my
anger
backtalk
piece
peace
nod and say
“Yes, ma-am—-we won't act like a couple in public.
No, we won't sit too close.
Of course sex should be kept for marriage”
But I wonder if she realizes that’ll take a move to Iowa
And well
Union College
Isn’t in Iowa.
And I bet
Even in Iowa
the whites of their eyes
Would still be showing.

She sat kitty-corner in a coffee shop

You roll your eyes. Conspicuous yet subtle with blue cloth wrapped around your head.
“Don’t stare at me. I’m just another American,” says the secret language of your body
The way your accent lies flat—Nebraskan.

A stranger at home.

I don’t know who you worship. Is your head covering called a burka? Are you hindu?

I keep my eyes downcast. Locked to the keyboard.

Your conversation with a normalboy seems a normaldate. You hate the way people watch you as if your entire existence is abnormal.

I wonder if your name is Abby or more exotic. What counts as exotic?

Again, you catch my eyes wandering
You are a picture from national geographic, stuck on a seat in the local coffee shop.

You hate that I stare—and we’re aware of each other. No attraction, no beauty—just cold difference melded into curiosity.

You consider yourself the curiosity, and have little patience.

You must not watch the gossiping eyes follow me to the counter. My head covering, betraying me another stranger at home, is shorn close to the sides.

Lesbian. Hindu.

Whatever.

You think I stare because we are so different.
And we are.
(thank you Union College.
thank you WASP community.)

But appearances are deceiving.

You roll your eyes.

Unedited editorial I wrote last semester

A rush of hot water pours through my fingers—each tiny droplet tingling on fresh skin. How can I start? I glance up at the bathroom mirror, palms still thrust beneath the luxurious flow of liquid. Somber green eyes gaze back from the reflection on the wall. What can I say that will make people care? How do I show them that the world is full of hurt they can help fix?

I think about all the teens that will commit suicide because someone threw out hateful words (such as the socially acceptable “fag” and “that’s gay.” Suicide rates for gay teens are four times that of their straight peers).

I think about the Middle Eastern immigrants and descendents who are subject to harsh prejudice (One boy’s father was shot buying groceries because someone thought he “looked like a terrorist”).

I think about the silent victims of abuse and rape—can we teach you to scream? Can we help you speak out against what’s been done to you and aid in prevention?

I think about the countries suffering from water-shortages, where children pass on a cup of water because “it’s not their day to have a drink.” How much water do we waste? How much water do I waste?

My reverie ends as I glace down to soaked hands; eyebrows lift. Quickly, I shut off the water. How will you start?

“It is the greatest of all mistakes to do nothing because you can only do little - do what you can.”
-Sydney Smith

i wonder which road a mountain would choose

She sat high above an ocean, looking down at me. A boulder, firm against my cheek, left tiny drops of moister on my skin. I imagined she was speaking (were those silent tears?), in her own moutain-esque way.

Tourists came to gawk at her smooth curves and jagged edges. Deep rumblings constantly shattered the serene atmosphere as vehicles--from planes to boats to motorbikes--disturbed the tiny island.

I overheard several park rangers bemoaning the fact they couldn't move from the States to this newfound paradise. It was everything they'd ever dreamed of--she was their very own Mona Lisa (if the ML had been found instead of created).

Frigid walls made from natural formations were all that met their musings. I wandered farther from the crowds. A man sat among springtime grasses, his demeanor everything a tourist wasn't. The air itself was different. Could it be the ice mountain actually showing some warmth? I must be daft.

"I name you," he announced, charming smile a daring bait, "Beauty and Pleasure." A compliment, I'm sure. But why then, did the skies begin to darken? A raindrop landed on my nose.

The mountain was crying. I glanced up, taking in the beautiful sight her mere presence created--feeling pleasure as my eyes explored each crevice and corner. Perhaps Beauty and Pleasure is all you'll ever be, I whispered.






Years later I heard the impossible had been accomplished, a mountain had been moved. My mountain. No one knows who did it, or where she's gone. Perhaps a new tourist came, swept her from a supposed paradise and renamed her something enchanting like Te Amo. Or perhaps she still plays at Beauty and Pleasure for a different group of self-involved tourists.



Or maybe there never was a mountain on that tiny island anyway.




(I think we're all just a bunch of fucking mountains anyway. Or is it mountains just get fucked over anyway? I haven't quite figured it out. )

holiday?

i try first for gold, but don’t know where to dig. so i go out searching…searching…

the sound nearly slices ears from my head. the lack of sound. silence. stillness. but it’s so loud, yesterday’s ruckus seem to drop from the skies—dammit I can hear their cries.

can you see it twist? battered gray chains touch onto tattered canvas, creating a new space for artwork. where did those crayons go?

the emptiness crushes me and i can’t keep my ribs from exhaling—i’m exploding. if white were blood, this place’d be full of it.

the covered ground stares up at me, startled there’s a witness. a table’s weathered bark is sanded to perfection. i hate perfection and curl fists around frozen air.

my lips push out words silently, cracked and pained with each syllable. “you chased the children away, with their laughter and their tears.”

stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it.

glares are directed toward the angry clouds, sunshine their miserable prisoner. i take it all in…take in death disguised as a playground. take in winter disguised as death.

take it and give it to you. spring would have made a much better present.