When you said

“You won't get rid of me that easily,”

I thought it meant you wanted me around.

But I know that to you I am just a mirror,

I am nothing beyond my usefulness,

and there has never been an us.

12:54 p.m.

I'm sitting in my history class

door to my left, phone to my right.

writing a letter to God

instead of taking notes

like I should be.

I'm tired.

My hands twitch constantly,

the foreign feeling of my

twitching fingers tugging

lightly on my forearm

as if nudging me

to write, to paint,

to create.

I pray silently that

my day won't be as

colorless as the sky.

A reason to smile for real would be nice.

1:25 p.m.

My professor rambles about French maps.

I can't unstick the thick feeling of guilt

from deep inside my chest. It hurts early,

I have not broken our hearts.

Yet.

1:56 p.m.

The professor tells us about Dubai in the 1980’s, a picture of the old city’s dirt road on the projector.

My right hand twitches again.

My professor mentions war.

1:59 p.m.

What about me?

What about

the pain-free life

I’ve craved since birth?

My guilt grows. I feel selfish.

People all around the world

are dying, starving…

Suffering.

At least in that I keep them company.

2:14 p.m.

My professor dismisses us.

I get up and walk

out the door

leaving his classroom

behind,

begging God to

let my troubles

stay back

with it.

Once more my mind falls victim to

the thickness of my guilt, gluing

the thoughts deep in my chest, and

just like always they stay,

walking right back out

the cold wooden door

along with me.

the scent of fried dough lingers

in the breeze just like a prize,

rainbow smiles and ice cream

paint the scene with starry skies

young couples’ faces brighten

playing games both rigged and fair

there’re stolen kisses sweetened

after funhouse mirror scares

A young man holds his partner

linked with her at hand and heel

soul bare she stares into his eyes

up on the Ferris wheel

ladybug freckles on his

cheeks, hair ruffled by the

wind, aphids on the underside

of his candy apple grin

As night falls and the stars come

out, their lips inches apart,

she doesn’t know he’s only

playing card tricks

with her heart

i tell you this tale,

how shoes became known to us,

not what you have heard.

Long ago a king,

court in iron fist, had a

secret obsession

He was an odd man,

who was lonely and quite sad

in search of a queen

So began the search

a reverse Cinderella:

Find the fairest feet

His subjects hiding

Young women were the victims

No one’s feet were safe

His harem much too full,

The king ordered to search the

Neighboring kingdom

The neighboring king

Heard this news, wanted no war

“Protect all the feet.”

So the neighbor king

A kind man of great riches

Sent out this decree

His men got to work

Crafting all shapes and sizes

New thing called “footwear”

The strategy worked

All his kingdom’s feet were spared

Weird king’s troops retreat

People slept in peace

Maidens’ feet were now free.

Shoes worn ever since

My brother flies, but our

sister and I must learn to.

I am grateful for the

freedom I do have:

they can’t stop the sunset,

i’ll always have my dreams.

they can’t force thoughts

into my head, i’ll

always see the world

through my own lens.

But my family chains me.

the push-and-pull of

our mother’s strong moon and

the burn on my back from

our father’s harsh sun

whip the tides of my soul

back and forth in the nest.

I used to think when I

grew up I’d be free.

That I’d graduate,

spread my wings,

fly out of the nest.

I used to think I could soar.

That was before I realized I had

such featherless wings.

in the end,

i belong

to my parents.

i am not

my own.

I once admired

your working hands.

Hands rough and strong,

so streaked with dirt.

Hands that feed, that

fight, that teach.

Hands that prayed,

and they pray still.

Hands that

risk their life to

abandon a homeland,

to cross a border,

hands that left your

home a world away

to make this strange land

mine

Aching hands that,

of sun and sweat, and

prayers and dirt,

built my life

on American soil

Loud hands at work,

at family reunions, church,

at quinceañeras, barbecues.

Loud hands outside,

Silent at home.

Sunburnt

hands that rip

The bitter taste of

fatherhood from your

unwilling tongue.

I've always watched your

Working hands come

home to rest,

No strength for love,

no time for me,

only to eat,

and work,

and sleep.

I pray my soft

delicate hands

Be as strong and tough

as you,

My gentle American hands,

such tender hands, so

unlike yours.

My privileged hands,

they want for nothing.

Such sheltered hands

Uncalloused, young,

untraveled.

I pray that

my American hands

have room to hold

the love you never did,

Love meant for me, my

brother, sister, mother,

or kids.

My hands provide

for not a child unseen.

They work to care, to

mend their hearts,

To wipe the sweat upon

my brow only after I dry

their tears.

My hands

won't work to kiss the

sun, my hands will work

to make a home.

My working hands

will work

To love.