Every time I blink,
my eyelids feel like sandpaper
rubbing up against one another.

My red and tired eyes
keep closing every five minutes.
I’ve been up for 24hrs and I need a break.

But the unfinished paper tells me sleep is not going to happen
and I might as well forget about the power nap I had planned

You have no one to blame but yourself,
this paper could’ve been written over the weekend.



The words on my notebook
stick to the paper
not my brain.

It’s the third time I’ve tried to memorize
the difference between the two objects
but all that I see are letters and figures
that don’t quite make sense

When will I learn? When will it stick?

Am I learning something new?

Or am I memorizing just to pass?



The click-clack of my keyboard has given me anxiety
One thousand words have been typed,
One thousand dreadful more to go
or more…

My father says he likes it when I type,
Te ves como toda una profesional
detras de la computadora

He grabs my hands – contrasting colors
against one another.
He holds my hands and I notice a new callous that
was not there before.
12-hour shifts and bosses who think he is
because he cannot speak their
with perfect precision.

I understand why he likes it when I type,
My hands are so smooth against his own.
Manos de niña educada.
He pats my hands,
and I can see the tiredness in his eyes
because he rises before the sun
and the porch light turning on is
his sunset and welcome home.

He lets my hands go,
allowing me to continue my work.

One thousand more words to go
Maybe even more, just for you