Unreliable Narrator
Updated: Oct 24, 2022
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