Family This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine.

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   Seeing my own face, not looking like any other

I condemn when they put a chunk of

my aunt, father, cousin

altogether. Presto: me.

I condemn, but I have done it ... so often.

No, no this human is solely me.

I throw glass, chase conform,

and writing is vital.

I even wake my insomniac mother

to HAND ME MY PENS.

One more flies over

if I don't have my pens.

I write and rip paper

and scream. Then write some more

because

because I AM.

I want to throw my sobbing body

into her arms -

"Tell me! Tell me I am an artist!"

Somebody tell me I have some worth,

that my pen strokes are not for nothing.



I think the next time I look into a mirror

I might slam a bat into it.

After every last shard sinks

to the white tile floor (with specks of my black hair everywhere)

I will turn on my heel, slam the door,

and walk into the shock-faced living room.

"Yes," I will say with a grin.

"I have my own eyes. Which of you

did give me these hollow cheekbones?"




This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.






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