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Born in 1991


by P.R. Mercado


Sometimes I think living in a house with so many rooms
you can get lost just making your way to the fridge
should be enough. I chastise myself for wanting more. 
I was led to believe this is what matters:
    You look away from an empty glass of water
    and when you grasp it to take a drink it is full again.
This house possesses the power of redundancy.
Rooms arranged precisely even after I push furniture
out of the way so I can practice my ballroom dancing. 
My generation is the generation of futile persistence. 
It is the generation of destruction only because
we are presented, over and over,
with a canvass of vast purity.
What else to do on a field of cleanliness but soil it?
We are crazy if we only clean it further. 
Yet I find myself during taciturn evenings
washing my hands with a sense of urgency & danger.
The skin of my hands have become rough and jagged
        as a result of constant agitated scrubbing.
The doctor tells me it is a disease. 
A psychology major told me it is because I feel stained
by some type of guilt or terror. 
I want to take your picture. I will keep it in my wallet. 
When I have faded into the blazing whiteness of our history,
I will look at it to tarnish myself,
and from this blotch emerge, finally, visible.
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