Writing

there are swans all around me 

but they are blind 

or i am invisible 

and i don't know which

The house breathes heavy.
Shadows louder than footsteps.
A slammed door echoes like thunder,
but we pretend it’s just the wind again.

Dinner gets cold while silence sits warm.
Mama stirs her coffee like nothing’s wrong.

I think I live for the silent and still —

The friends you made against your will.

The evening light,

The morning mist,

The impossible odds that you even exist.

Everybody's excited.

It's summer, after all.

I lie in my room, terrified of the pool parties,

The farmers markets,

The ice cream,

The fun,

The outside,

The friends,

The library.

They call it “the hood.”

We call it family.

They call it “ghetto.”

We call it culture.

It’s loud — but it’s home.

The ice cream truck rings at the same time every day.

I can't believe it

I've never mentioned it for almost a year now

it turns out that I really can keep secrets for this long

from even myself

from the universe

from everyone else

from my confidants.