Paper
Robin Wittrock
The blank, stark, white paper
Glares at me from under
Fluorescent lights.
Lines and margins are all I can see,
More boundaries.
The crisp, clear empty lines mock me,
Tease and bite me.
I put my hand down on the paper,
Asking it to stop;
Trying to fill it,
But my pale hand blends into the page.
I can still hear their words echoing in my head:
“She’s not local—”
“Not a drop of Hawaiian, even Pacific—”
“Silly haole girl thinks she can—”
“Writing here means—”
“We don’t need tourists—”
I tear the paper from my notebook,
And the crumpling sound fills my ears as I
Ball it up,
Covering the voices in my head,
The critical.
Silence.
I throw the ball containing the voices into the
Trash can
And walk
Outside
Into the
Light.