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I fall in love every day. My boyfriend worries that I’m unfaithful. Little does he know.

The package was heavier than she expected. She ripped the flimsy duct tape from the seams of the box and pulled out what was inside: a book. Paperback, pages tattered, worn from overuse. The corners of her lips mirrored the curled page corners as she started to smile and hugged the book close to her body.

It all started with a Snapchat. I usually only Snapchat my cousins, and I have no idea how or when this guy became my friend, but I received a notification from a John**. The photo was of a shirtless boy with squinty eyes and a little smirk that said “wyd.” I showed it to my brother asking who the guy was.

(I have no idea if the purple flowers I saw were actually heal-alls but I am always itching for good omens) 

I sometimes look out at birds and wish I was them. And mountains

Oh, the mountains, 

Sending tears down their slopes 

            rippling and shaking 

Before anyone gets mad, the answer is a resounding NO. You simply cannot; well, at least, not if you care about someone other than yourself (I am looking at white people specifically, yeah, you). You see, the issue with separating morals from politics lies in how privileged you are.

Picture a family. How many children do you see? How many parents? Mother, father, boy, girl: the nuclear family almost always appears as a two-parent household with (usually) two children.  One child or two, “the family,” according to popular media, has two parents. 

“Yeah, you would know all about this. I need a lovey, romantic card for somebody,” the large- framed man said in a lowered voice. He glanced around the store from the counter where we stood and squeezed the fingers together near the top of his chest.

I was in my bed, on the phone with him, and after roughly 15 seconds of silence he said to me: “Wanna know what I can’t stop thinking about?” 

And I said,

“Yes,” 

Because I always wanna know what he’s thinking about. 

And he said, 

Do you want to know what’s funny to me? There’s never really a “last” goodbye, is there?

I Try Not to Consider the Lilies

I try not to consider the lilies

or think of how they are arrayed

because I know that they are greater

than any earthly king.

Because when I do consider the lilies

I toil and spin in ways I’m not supposed to

The first time I heard the word “diaspora,” it fit perfectly into my mind's holding place for funny words. Diaspora. I would try it on like a cloak-and-veil, whisper it under my breath, and brush it through my dark eyebrows. I’d write it down in cursive; Google it incessantly every time I forgot its perfect definition.

When someone asks, “How are you?” what do you say? Maybe you bare your soul, laying out your triumphs and trials to a perfect stranger. Maybe you brush past every mishap, replying with only the highlight of your day. Or, if you’re like me, perhaps you rely on an old standby. If “How are you?” is Pavlov, I am its dog.