there is a line that flows
from my paper
to the mississippi river
crooked
like my fingers
like the beatles posters on my walls

i like to watch it bend under my desk
where there’s pencil shavings
and old scraps of bristol
and unfinished sketches

but it taunts me sometimes

it curls around my ears and
grabs my shoulders
in heavy hands

i can almost hear my mother when
it tells me that
women clean
not sit at desks all day
and i can’t seem to take its grubby hands
off my skin

my paper becomes a
sticky web that catches insecurities
because
mexico doesn’t make lazy women
our hands aren’t meant to sharpen pencils
they hold brooms and
fold clothes

i can’t tell if the wet stains on my paper
come from the river or
my eyes

the page is soaked
it drips on the desk

and the line is blurred