By Abby Coffey
The first box says white
The second says Hispanic
My pen hovers
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