The Reality by Zaila Brinson (New York, 18)

“Congratulations.”

That’s what they said.

We celebrated the fact that,
every month, I now have to stare
at scarlet drops
running down the bowl.

They look at me differently
when I walk into class,
or down the street...

everywhere really, tragically.

I won’t lie and say I enjoy their plaudits
even though that’s what they think is true.
​
The way they examine me,
makes me uncomfortable.
I feel the need to hide
for fear I will be snatched up,
so they can fulfill their desire
to get an even closer look
and uncover everything I want
to keep to myself and protect.

I don’t want it,
never did I ask for it,
yet I will always get it
because I simply exist.

I have to be honest with myself
and sometimes try to be honest
with the beasts, even though
I know it might not end well. But I must,
so they also can try to speak their mind.

It was not the bleeding
that caused their gaze to alter,
for I have been viewed like this;

Like a chunk of meat
ready to be skewered,
for many years prior to the
crimson ocean coming to crash
its waves on my shores.

“Congratulations, you're one of us.”

That’s what they explained.






Zaila Brinson is a student at the University at Albany, State University of New York. She is a native of Las Vegas, Nevada. Her work is forthcoming in The Incandescent Review.