wo he ta

I sit here and glower, tucked in the corner
of the number 17 down broadway. She sits opposing
me: pretty as a petal, a fragile flower wreathed in desperate attempts.

Lips that form the shapes of ideas that dance
in my ears and taunt my incapacitaed mind. Hair intoxicated with pretense,
and a face, layered like a geisha save the truth. Sway
by...

I sit here and glower, tucked in the corner
of a colour that I share with her. My tongue drops
on the gritty bus floor. -Dead- after ten thousand years of history.
Still, I keep my hair jet black, embracing my blood while being absolutely
alienated
from hers.

I've found my research topic for sociolgy: the Chinese Identity.