Ripe

My mother stung and stung. Her words stung. Her fury stung. Her palm stung across my skin. Some part of love must be the stinging.

I absorb the chorus: a flood of boss bitch affirmations repeated by a woman over a hollow, hypnotic beat.

For a moment, the song lifts me. The melody and the drugs make me feel like a Believer: I can do it. I can do anything today. I am great at my job. I am a great worker. I am one of the best.

It almost works, but it stops just short. The feeling never lasts.

There is no adequate literal phrase

In my first days here, I thought I was enough. But life moved too quickly for me to stay ahead: I struggled with deadlines, overslept, performed poorly

Maybe there must always be two of us—our real selves and the ones we create to survive in the world as it is.

Maybe there must always be two of us—our real selves and the ones we create to survive in the world as it is.

Maybe there must always be two of us—our real selves and the ones we create to survive in the world as it is.

presses the life out of me

Their white plastic earbuds override the sound of real life, their faces buried in their screens. They do not speak or make eye contact. They aren’t really here. The train is full of husks.

Their white plastic earbuds override the sound of real life, their faces buried in their screens. They do not speak or make eye contact. They aren’t really here. The train is full of husks.