In Iran I am a rebel. I show my hair. In Brazil I am exotic. The nomads left me their yellow eyes to search the desert sand. Where I live, there is no sand. In America I am my age. Stuck in the in-between where nothing lasts. I am the enemy. No matter how hard they try to rid me of these thoughts the things they do only drill them in deeper. I do not belong in either world. When they ask me where I come from, I cannot say. In Iran I am outspoken. I have no loss for words. They spill from my lips like a waterfall in the Amazon. In Brazil I am silent. I do not dance. I cannot feel the rhythm. I string words together like beads. In America I am the empty space. I am what is not there. But when the painting is finished, and I am the only space left, then you will see what I am. I am the color of the clay, baking in the midday sun. A sun so old it has seen both worlds. I am the color of the coffee beans that fall from the trees in the rainforest. They wait for the monkeys to find them. Sprout leaves and last forever. In America, my language is a fragrant blend of spices. Those who have not tasted it will never understand. When they call my name, they are deceived. I am the sun. An egg white. I am light.
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