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.” 

Two mirrors face each other, a girl in between.

The girl is me, stuck on the cliche of the introvert; on the outside looking in.

My problem is that I've always been on the inside looking out.

Trembling fingers, and one deep breath.

Eyes closed as the tips of his fingers

Grace the smooth edge of the ivory washed keys.

And the notes on the page jump out at him –

Decrescendo here! Forte there! A trill now!