By Abby Coffey

The first box says white 

The second says Hispanic 

My pen hovers 

Confused, conflicted 

My head and heart in disharmony 

My mouth creases, the edges turned upside down 

My mouth is a fraud 

The lines, the edges: they lie 

How can I be Hispanic if my r’s don’t roll? 

How can my thick, dark-brown hair be American? 

 The edges crease further 

My soft, moisturized hands smooth it 

The lines become straighter- but my eyes 

My eyes are not yet satisfied