picture me. I am… by Hayley Ng

I

seven.
immaterial, in a dream.

You were taking me home from school. around me, a white fog, soft and smothering.

i couldn’t see above Your nose. the top half of Your face had been obscured by white.

i fell, and You kept walking. maybe You didn’t notice.

i called out, and maybe You didn’t hear me. maybe the fog crawled into my mouth and ate my voice.
maybe You just didn’t care.

in my bed, alone, awake, and gasping.
crying.

the darkness felt too open, too overwhelming, too much.

crawling under my bed, where the wooden bed frame, the carpet, and my breathing pressed on my body and my senses. where everything felt safer, closer, realer.

realer than You.
II

thirteen.
writing a thank You letter to my friends for being there for me.

they think it was a suicide note and they tell our school counselor. i am forced into counseling for three months.

You said i shouldn’t go since it’s a waste of time. that there’s no point. don’t waste their time, You said. don’t waste their time worrying about something that isn’t there.
i still went. it’d be even more suspicious if i didn’t show up at all.

unassuming.

saying all the right things and nothing that would keep me there for longer than i needed to be.
The frosted glass window keeps others from looking into the office.

to those curious, i become faceless.

a potted plant. the wooden slats. a painting; a landscape, or perhaps, a still-life.

Even when the small office and warmth of the heater and soft chairs reminded me of the space beneath my bed.

in there, i feel larger than myself. larger than my body could reasonably accommodate.

an optical illusion.
III
seventeen.
dating a girl.

and You didn’t know.

happy, for a few months, but then we broke up.

i come home that day and You open the door for me.

You ask me why i look so upset.

i say it’s nothing. just stress, as usual. my voice echoes a bit in the mudroom and seems to come from the small shoe closet.

stress has been my main excuse these past few years.
there’s nothing to be stressed about, You say. just don’t be so serious all the time.

heading for the bathroom.

i turn on the hot water and focus on the steam brushing against my face.

opening my eyes and looking at the fogged-up mirror above the sink.

i cannot see myself clearly in it.

that is how it should be. that is how it must be.
IV

nineteen.
eating a pack of rainbow gummies next to my sister on the floor.

my sister handed them to me from her halloween basket after she went trick-or-treating.

she was never a fan of gummies.

You come in from the kitchen and wrinkle Your nose at them, at us.

You tell us rainbows are only for gay people.

this is not the first time You’ve said that.

but then You said You would never accept us if we were gay or lesbian or bisexual.

You tell my sister to give me another candy. a chocolate.

leaving to go to my room.

You ask me where i’m going and i say i’m tired and want to sleep.

hiding under the bed again.

there’s not as much space under there since it’s being used for storage for boxes of our old belongings.

between a box of old papers and clothes.
away from You.
closer to me.

the white fog is in my lungs, in my head, in my eyes, and in me.