I sit alone at my mothers kitchen counter, sipping mushroom soup.
I have a new notebook and an inky pen.
three library books, half-skimmed litter the cold marble
I read those words, so bitter and salty, so desperately penned by my people.
my heart feels so overjoyed and melancholy
every word turns dagger to my soul.
I understood it all.
Those were.
Those are, my people.
And so, I smiled and turned the page.
