I Imagine my Interview with the Ivy League

So this is who you are — bright young

scholar, face like white peach. Soft and

luminous. Ripe for the picking.

Scholar, tell me which poison you prefer;

this five foot body of yours could not have

survived the head rush of a hell ride of a

high school career without the aid of

substances and abuse. Tell me, scholar,

did you wrap your tongue around the

firewood of Ambition? Or perhaps

Pressure did it to you; it is commonly

known as the violet liquid that chokes.

So, scholar, ready your arrows. However

many you brought is your number of

chances. May your aim ring true, may you

aim for something that sticks; remember that

I am your target, my iris what you hope to

penetrate. Force me to look at you. I will

catch your arrows in my palms and I will

decide if they break skin.

Asian girl, how are you unlike the others?

Asian girl, you better bite your nails into

daggers and pray that I christen you tiger.

Let me tell you about the girl who wrote

poems. The girl who spoke in quivering

birdsong and shy smile. Shy smile pulled

back, to reveal pearls of ice caps, craters of

moon; otherwise known as the dirty white

pebbles we kick for fun in America.