Crossed Over

by Santana Knox

No one prepared me for the burden it was to be the singular child of an immigrant, the pressure to not just succeed, but surpass, my parents’ accomplishments, as well as their struggles.

Well that hit fucking home.

I was opening a tomb, releasing dead parts of me that had been hiding, waiting for their day in the sun again, to give another chance for this shell of my body to live once more.

This was freedom. I had forgotten. How could I forget?

Her eyes perked up. “Oh. Are you close?” “We’re a lot of things. Lacking boundaries, mutually emotionally manipulative, codependent, damaged as hell, but close?” I shook my head.

It always took way too long to come back to life, as if the sweet release of death was somehow more comforting than working its little robotic battery to be a servant for the human race.