WRITTEN BY CELINE CHOI
Those white boys who believe you are in love with them are maddening. The clinking hoop earrings of your sister who is trying to be something she’s not but will become remind oneself too much of the skins shed in the past. The blush which crosses the golden tip of the pretty girl’s nose is just about the cutest image you have conjured in months and you are reminded of beauty and the restoration of Faith in Humanity. The Washington Post slips out just as easily as the words no cap for the ones straddling girlhood and womanhood in spaces undesignated for them. The bad grades crumpled in the back of one’s backpack are just social constructs but since when have social constructs not been the only things that matter. Monday is a social construct. Your depression is a social construct. This poem is a social construct.