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I’d like to think there’s

something infinitely mystic about bubbles. Something

that grabbed the irises of my

childhood eye

How does it shine like that?

What happens if I eat it? Will

my hands ever be quick enough to

catch one?

Took me some time to realize I

ended up inside one but  

wasn’t shiny and soapy like

my mind made it out to be. I spent my time slipping

and floating around looking for mirrors

because I couldn’t see anyone that looked

like me.

Why are they looking at me

 like that? What happens if they

get uncomfortable? Will

my shaking hands let them

 know I’m still not

 fast enough to catch anything?

My mother told me, “a habit becomes a habit

after 21 days”.  I began only understanding

this type of ~mirror language~.

My irises mixing with soap morphing,

blurring the lighter faces. Their

words static in my ears.

Does Mom see it like I do?

 

.

.

.

 

What happens when you burst

a bubble? And who can? My

hands still aren’t strong or fast enough

to do it from the inside.

I have grown used to smiling,

and “I’m good. How are you”-ing

at the sound of static and

blurred voices

Mckenzie Baker

Wake Forest '21

Mckenzie Baker is a 20 year old with roots in Memphis, TN and Atlanta, Ga. She enjoys writing about identity and time. She is currently a third year at Wake Forest University and her favorite smell is freshly cut grass.
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