It’s not a novel I’m trying to write when I string words together in my head to describe the movement on my insides when I start to worry about my younger sister whom I think has been abandoned by the world. I’m not ready yet to publish a book about my life and how it was great in the beginning, but only ever got worse since December 2010 when I came to the land of opportunity. I never write these lines down; the ones that form in my head as I walk along the street thinking about the most recent argument I had with the man who wants to marry me. That is just the way my mind works. It makes my life into lyrics and poetic lines, distant, sepia paragraphs that I imagine would look nice in an old book to a woman crouched on the floor, sunken deep into its pages. The shortfall is that these lines never seem to develop into a full body. Instead they trail off and float away into the cool wind I hate because it always makes a warm day into one where I need to shiver.

History on My Mind

I carry history with me.
I heave it on my shoulders
and show it to the world.

The world covers its eyes:
it’s not that serious.
I stop, frozen
by the incomprehension.
My shoulders start to droop.

I thought I had already explained this.
I thought you understood.
Why now are my hands being shoved away?

This is my life.
This is my burden.
I thought you understood.

Why do you say my blood is irrelevant?
Is my blood not just as red as yours?
I thought you said we were the same.