Unreliable Narrator

Updated: Oct 24

BY NIA BOLDE




I could do other things.

Slip out of my heels and not

notice, when they begin to collect dust.

Sell off

a few gifts,

to cover,

rent for a year or two, and still have enough to help my friends. It would be easy.


On year three

I could get

a job in the city, and insist

that I was realizing my dreams. I could

make

my paycheck do

acrobatics;

Ignore the gaze of every man in the office.

I could finally put my degree to use take a position

that my mother could tell her friends about.

I could post to LinkedIn

and not be offered

a date; I could make myself small. I could

make myself small

I could pretend.



POEM BY NIA BOLDE

PHOTO COURTESY OF NIA BOLDE