I begin the day with my head on a stake.
Drink water for three hours and pretend to walk
around the block. Cut off all my hair and move
to Savannah with red wine and borrowed money.
Make it big. Forget to shower. Move back
to the apartment complex, where people fold laundry
and let the day spill past them like a naked gaze.
Stuff my insides with oats and honey. Pretend to
fold laundry like everyone else. Cry after calling
my parents. Cry hard enough on the hardwood floor
that my knees clink together. Push the door in the neighbors
face when he knocks and asks me to keep it down.
Think how suspicious it is that other people have nothing
to think about. Think about the ignorance of that thought.
Clean the floor. Clean the bathroom counters. Clean until
it becomes suspicious. I cannot smell like kitchen sinks
forever. Put on a record. Something light. Something live.
Tell my boyfriend he is all I think about. Hate myself for
lying to my boyfriend and telling him he is all I think about.
Ask myself where my sense of community is.
Where is the light? Why can I not find it?

Breia Gore

 

Breia Gore is an Asian-Pacific American poet living in South Carolina. She attends the University of South Carolina where she is pursuing a BA in English concentrated in Creative Writing and minor in film studies. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Lithium Magazine, Adolescent Content, Concept Literary, and Dirty Paws Press. She strives for education reforms in the arts through Teach For America and aims to create her own literary magazine to encourage youths to stay community-engaged and politically active. When she isn’t stumbling over rough drafts or pointing out small animals on walks, she can be found drinking tea and organizing her pens.

© 2018