I am mired in transition, a sense of in-between-ness:
childhood & adulthood,
tradition & assimilation,
I mourn the loss of certainty.
shifting like tectonic plates, my identity searches for stable ground --
I look between the gaps in my bookcase,
the cracked concrete in my driveway,
the dashed lines in the road on the way to school,
I find nothing.
the aroma of coffee and sleepless nights is ever-present --
I grasp at scents and memories from times before
(of wonton soup, of tiger balm) do they bring solace
in stress? or too fast fading, disappearing --
a distant dream. I call out into the dark, hear echoes
bouncing off turquoise walls, words
seeking storage in the glow of the blue-white screen --
name three words your best friend would use to describe you.
describe a time when you exhibited bravery.
questions suspended, unanswered, they bloom only more.
how many drafts of myself do I have to go through before I’m shiny enough for admission? which parts of my identity do I snip away when I’m 10 words past the word count? does “peer revision” apply to real life, too?
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iii. senior fall
green gives way to fiery hues,
through air and drift down,
bright heaps of orange, yellow, fading browns, once again
with each gust and breeze (changing direction by the hour)
never still for long
(a journey still seeking destination)