Alyson

Alyson

Being sick is being away. I was alone, but I lost my choice to be. I think about how far I have come, measuring it by my ability to function between puking. Lying down, I wonder who will put ice in Gatorade and buy saltines for me when I’m sick next year.

I find it hard to write anything poetic anymore—or just right now—but college decisions aren’t much inspiration.

I had a dream that a football guy from my Psych class got into NYU for a major in women’s studies. Suddenly, I was at the pit of every stereotype I had learned, and did not fit any of those I had tried to make for myself. ♦