
What are you?
I don’t mind
when people ask
“What
are
you
?”
My round nose
and light eyes
making me
impossible
to categorize.
I don’t mind
when people ask
“What
are
you
?”
My narcissism
relishes
in their fascination
with my exotic tongue
and inexplicable formation.
I don’t mind
when people ask
“What
are
you
?”
Because when I say,
"I am American.
And I am Japanese."
I watch as they think
they’re getting a grasp on
me.
And then I say,
"I. Am. also.
a writer
that not many people
read.
I don’t know if it’s ’cause I’m bad.
Or if they’re put off by
vulnerability.
And I. Am. also
pretty anxious,
and sometimes
depressed.
I don’t get so much sleep
even when I need the rest
because,
you know what?
I. Am. so scared
of when,
my father will die.
What if it leaves me
so empty,
my tears forget to cry?
And,
I. Am. also
an artist
but objectively,
not good.
I’m thinking of taking classes,
do you think that I should?
And I. Am. also
an addict
to uninspired security.
And I hide it behind a mask
of feigned maturity.
There’s a lot
more things I am,
but
does that start to answer your question?"
And my narcissism smiles,
when they need
"time for reflection.”
So, you can ask me
what I. Am.
I don’t mind it at all.
But make the Time
when you do,
’cause what I am
isn't small.
