Grey clouds loomed over our heads with condensation in their flesh Scaring away the sun that we wished sat there with us. The brisk January breeze dragged  on our skin as if it were carpet. Some cheeks reddened, and some stayed the same.   Turning our heads to face one another,  we had broad smiles on our faces.  We weren’t          alone,               and that made us             happy.  We placed our left hands on the person’s shoulder to our left—  we clasped shoulders with friends, bullies, acquaintances, and people we wished we could have known —and held our phones on our right.  We pressed record,  and we watched as a countdown popped up on our phones.  Some of us cried some of us were overjoyed,  and some of us spit out profanities,  but together,  we were all happy.       We felt loved. We didn’t care about one another's  complexities; we just loved each other for who we  were and what we stood up for.  So, as we glanced at the floor below, we only dreamed  for the screen to turn black and to hear complete silence. The extinction of our being—to be at peace. The end of life, the never-ending questions of  what it'd be like, and we’d get answers.  If life would end, so be it.  If we go to heaven, so be it.  If we go to hell, so be it.       If we reincarnate, so be it.  If there’s  no noise… we invite it. 5… The sun found a hole to peek through the clouds to watch us as we embraced into a journey of the unknown. 4… We followed the wind  to our left and then  to our right.  Smiling at one another, filled with admiration and hope for a new world. 3… We look at the edge of the building, the wind guiding  our foot to hover  over the ledge. 2… We held onto each other tight,  happy to see the sun  and the emerging blue sky  a final time. We only hope to leave  a better life for others as    we  1.          step off  this  As our heads tilted downward  and our vision was consumed by the gray  sidewalk below, we knew there would be change,  and we knew our voices would be heard.  We’d save our brothers and sisters from  a world that would doom them. ledge.

You stare at me with the eyes of dementia. Why do you avoid me? Look at my blue cover and black spiral stairs, do they scare you? When you leave me splayed open—  my pages filled with the doodles you left  when you finally dared to use me— do you do it on purpose? How my spine itches  for your touch  like a meth head looking for their next fix, do you even want me? Why can’t you hold me  as you press your pencil onto me? Marking me with the lead,  creating a whole new world inside me. Your lines reference art before my ti- me,  Artwork intertwined with memories  of the past as it haunts every  curl on the page. You can’t seem       to throw me away,     can you? You won’t let me  collect dust under your bed  like the other sketchbooks.  You see my looks,  you know my worth,  you can’t let me go.

My mother would ask me,  “What do     you     want to be when you grow up?”  She’d tell me,            “You can do whatever you want;             just ensure you’re happy .” She let me choose what I wore, not intervening  when I wore my favorite yellow shorts  one too many times. She didn’t bat an eye  when I told her I didn’t like wearing skirts or  when I played with cars and dinosaurs  instead of dolls.  She loved me no matter who I was. Even  if in pre-school, I told my art teacher,          “I liked all the colors except pink.” She even loved me when I  got defensive over a woman demanding I  close my legs, even though I  wore my favorite yellow shorts.  She let me cry  and held me. She’d  take the skin off her back if I  asked her for it, giving me her spine as a tip.  She gave me everything and more, while he  gave me nothing.   No wonder I chase after something I  want, but once I have it, I get bored and ask for more. Once in high school, I wore  baggy shirts walked with power   in my stance, with my back curled inward  to hide the breast  that sat on my chest.  In college, I puff up my chest and show off my breast  because the beauty of me as a woman  can finally impress  my ego of being powerful and domineering.  What does that make about me  as a woman? As a woman  who grew up as a boy .  You bought me a tennis racket  and told me we’d play together.  Those rackets laid behind my bookshelf, collecting dust  before my mom threw them away. You’d take me to the park and sat on a bench reading a book, studying  the words on the page, oblivious to  my tears as I clenched my right elbow. The raised  scar remains, fading away  like your fatherly responsibilities.  I could have played  baseball with you if you  really wanted. But did you  really  want it? Aren’t you happy? You wanted  a boy, after all.

Water poured into the sink, my grandmother’s, Mami’s, veiny hands forming tan waves in the water as she washed the dishes. The room was tight. Five steps took her to the stove and another two to the dining table, where my mother, Ma, sat reading werewolf fanfiction on her tablet. The women discussed dinner plans. Mami pulled out some meat to make chicken for the night and her premade sasón to add flavoring. A black furry tail curled around my Mami’s veiny legs. “Meow.” He stretched, exposing his claws, taunting Mami. Mami yelled at Ma, “Saca al gato de la cocina o lo echaré de la casa.” She grabbed a newspaper, worried about her legs and his fur getting in the food. swoosh She shooed the cat away. She’d been saying that for 15 years, and he was still here. “Ay, mami, déjalo tranquilo.” Ma hushed. My grandfather sat on his armchair in the living room, his eyes glued to the screen from sunrise to sunset, waiting for his chance to watch the next Yankees game. The room was stale, the white light haunting the room with the curtains down. His butt carving his love in the cushion, remembering the years of wear. He ranted about politics on the phone in Spanish with someone I had never known. His ears wore down from working in a factory for 40 years withoutear protection. He spoke loud, wanting to hear his own voice. His boasting echoed through the long hallway and entered my room. Like grand- father-like daughter— I sat in my room that I shared with Ma. My bed sat atop Ma’s on metal stilts, casting a shadow over her. I learned to stop scraping my head or hands on the popcorn ceiling the super refused to remove. My eyes stayed glued onto the TV, playing Minecraft alone, not speaking a lick of Spanish unless my grandmother or grandfather was speaking to me. “¿Por qué me dejaste sola?