My Story, Not Yours

Sun, 11/22/2015 - 17:59 -- katycui

Where are you from?

I-

No. Where are you really from?

A tiny hut squeezed between the blue valleys north of the coast where the rice patties fill up the entire land or perhaps a brick house hidden behind the alley crawling with rats of bulging stomachs and whipping tails scurrying across the bodies of the sick.
I see the ridiculous notions swimming in your eyes as you stare at my midnight black hair and my thick rectangular glasses

No. You don't know who I am.

You can stare but don't you dare try to tell my story when you haven't even said a simple hello

I’ll tell you my version now
It’s the one story blue house across the noisy playground filled with swings and slides, it’s the tiny candy store with the green gummy frogs and rolls of glossy red licorice that has an odd but satisfying taste, its the looming oak tree hiding in the corner of the school playground waiting for me to sit criss cross under the reaching branches, its the kitchen table covered with my crayon scribbles, fire brick red, peach puff pink, sweet almond brown, olive green, cadet blue, lavender purple…

That make up where I’m from

So no, I am not from a distant village hidden beneath the Great Wall. You don't even know where the Great Wall is. 

Let me tell my story and try not to steal the words from my mouth next time

Because telling someone else who they are is no doubt a crime 

This poem is about: 
Me

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