They ask: "Why the mask?" I ask: "Why your face?"
I am not from here. I was never from here. You gave me a name at birth, but it fits like a stolen coat. My real name is the pause between the snare hits. My real face is the smear of green and black under the stage lights—a warning label with no product behind it.
I press my palm flat against the bathroom tile. Cold. Good. Pain is a language I still understand. The other one—the one they want me to speak, full of please and thank you and I’m fine —that one corrodes my throat. It tastes like nickels.
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir.
They ask: "Why the mask?" I ask: "Why your face?"
I am not from here. I was never from here. You gave me a name at birth, but it fits like a stolen coat. My real name is the pause between the snare hits. My real face is the smear of green and black under the stage lights—a warning label with no product behind it.
I press my palm flat against the bathroom tile. Cold. Good. Pain is a language I still understand. The other one—the one they want me to speak, full of please and thank you and I’m fine —that one corrodes my throat. It tastes like nickels.
This body is a rental. This rage is a souvenir.