Half Mexican, Half Puerto Rican

Skimming at the walls that are painted with manipulation by my father's side,

I, a ghost in the corner with a cloth over its head and a cup of coffee in hand,

empty while the other cups are full.

I peek down at my empty cup and see the words spelled out as if it was alphabet soup,

The words his family would say to me, I can't stand to re-read them,

and how they float with no coffee.

I sip the words and try to hide how their alphabetical words string

like a wasp that refuses to go down the throat, it's buzzing

hurting more and more.

I sit in the corner, the ghost trying to stay put and not make any noise,

I sew my lips together, fearing whatever I will say will not satisfy everyone's wants,

And instead will be judged and laughed at.

The outcast, the ugly duckling always being pushed aside and the last choice.

I've known this feeling all my 19 years. He is no stranger,

He stands by my side and walks in the door, the only one happy to see me.

I crochet the memories as if trying to fix my DNA. My DNA can't even

Understand their racism and inclusion, if they themselves are from an

Island filled with azul, blanco, rojo, música, arroz, y coquito.

The lonely ghost in the corner, crocheting with a cold cup of nothing.