Dear Reader,

Looking out of a window. Brick walls. Attached buildings. Crossover rooftops. Thin egg shelled walls. But I’m still dreaming. My space is solidified by 4 walls. All enclosed in phrases. Ceiling above me is snow. Neighbors arguing. Smell of crystals rolled in brown paper. Eww the musk. Nauseating. Aromas of plants… Creeping in my space from under my single lock door. Mmm. I love that smell. It lights fire in me. Burning slowly when rolled properly. The love I have for a joint. Hate fills in me with the smell of cigarettes and coffee. More disgust. I’m still stuck on stupid. Pissy elevators. Pissy stairwells. I can’t stick my head fully out the window… Black window guards. My gold plated bangled wrist makes its way through the guards. My skin has indulged the vitamin D. No nail polish… My grandma didn’t allow that…. Nails uneven. Slightly split.. I twist my head… There goes that oh so common sound. The basketball court is filled with boys. You hear the long telephone cords being slammed against concrete. Girls giggling. Double Dutch. But I’m up at my window. Being a creep. Dreaming. While others dream of being ball players, rappers, I’m dreaming. My dreams of becoming. Having my own. Not relying on anyone. I’m just that Latina. That nerdy quiet little Puerto Rican girl from the 3rd floor. 3C. Stacks of library books….. Tongue twisters. I’m shy can’t speak, weird…. But I kept dreaming. What were those dreams? They were fire hood dreams! Dreams of every little boy and girl that dreams of what it’s like to leave the hood.

Marguerite Duras, The North China Lover (via perfeqt)