my best friend pops pills
so today’s problems can become
four days’ ago
and she can breathe through plastic tubes while
her mother cries over her failing body.
her mother that chose motherhood too late, chose
motherhood after her daughter’s innocence lay raped
in a janitors closet, as the
seeds of bipolar disorder
grow from the bleached floors
and stick to her bruised, bleeding skin.
her mother chose the indian community so
that her daughter
would always grow up with a family, yet
that girl drowns in loneliness and
cannot accept love.
my best friend pops pills because
there’s always strife;
strife in not being smart enough,
like the dr. grandfathers that came here, the dr.
grandfathers that did better than others, the dr.
grandfathers that prove that
we can do well in this country.
well, mentally ill, and dying as our people are
shot for no reason at all:
misunderstood as muslims,
understood as asian,
acknowledged as not white.
my best friend pops pills because how much can
an indian girl do survive,
knowing she’ll never live
like the white men that stare at her
breasts in hunger.
we were born to women who sacrificed their dream
only to be women that don’t have the will to
accomplish any of their own.