Your tangy citrus grin

cuddles up against my lips.

Our palms, their creases and our fingertips,

collide together the way kiwis fit snug in their skin.

Harmonies pour out of our souls,

dancing in our laughter.

I wake early before the birds are stirring

Loading the car with all the supplies

Long drive in the dark with the tires whirling

I get to the land before sunrise

In Iran I am a rebel. I show my hair. In Brazil I am exotic. The nomads left me their yellow eyes to search the desert sand. Where I live, there is no sand. In America I am my age. Stuck in the in-between where nothing lasts. I am the enemy.

I was in the middle of Alabama, silhouette illuminated by the golden hour’s subtle sunlight, engrossed in a conversation with my cousin, just catching up.

He’d asked me if I was any better, and I’d told him that “at least I know my triggers now.”