I am crashing out now
in your kitchen.
The government is
watching me and
they don’t care.
I am not a threat
to the hegemony.
I should buy a gun.
I should post a
photo of it.
I earned this.
But I’m white
so it’s fine, I guess
I am not very
threatening
to other white
people.

I am part of
the problem
and by problem
I mean solution
and by solution
I mean I am
doing enough
but not doing
anything either.
It’s complicated.
What is there left
to do but remember.
How not to be
yourself and
hold onto it.

I am trying on my
best angry face
in your window.
But I don’t look hurt
enough for this,
my hairs aren’t
yet grey so no
one will believe
I have suffered
enough to truly
care. I care, okay.
I want to be
more principled
in my understandings.
I know that what
I think means
close to nothing.

Now you are shooing
me out with
your feet. You
don’t care about
my little insecurities.
You don’t think
about these things.

When you hand
me a piece of
bread, I ask
if it’s gluten-free.
You tell me no
but it’s okay
because I’m
not actually
allergic.
I just want
to be different.
Please tell me
I’m different.



Era Pasquale lives in Oregon and edits Dreck.

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