I Talk

Sitting sheepishly silent, minding myself, I wait for the buses to line up outside to take me home.

"Hey, Girl, you talk?" The boy behind me in homeroom asks. 


"Yeah." I talk.

Now thirteen years later, I balance a flour baby on my hip. I carry it everywhere I go, coating each acquaintance I bump into with a painfully thin layer of white powdered awkwardness. It settles into the cracks and crinkles of me, clogging my nose and curbing my ability to communicate intelligibly. I choke and cough on dry, shy mumblings. I nibble nervously on my chalky, flaky cuticles. I jerk my eyes from contact with other eyes to slap the dust from my shoulder; sneeze onto my shirt sleeve or to pound the powder from my pants.

However, this is not about wanting a carriage with a baby in it. This is about wanting courage with a couple of balls in it. I have problems. Yes, I know. Problems I should address with a padded envelope and an entire book of stamps.

Do I talk? Yes, I talk. And I don't spend every single day secretly and hurriedly looking onto mirrors and the backs of metal spoons. Some days I look nice, pretty even, and I say funny things to laughing listeners.