Starfish

by Akemi Dawn Bowman

She doesn’t ask to see it; she laughs like it’s a harmless joke—like I’m supposed to be in on the joke. Except Mom doesn’t laugh like a normal person. She laughs like she’s secretly mocking the entire world.

I don’t have that kind of control. My feelings tend to burst out of me like I’m a water balloon. Mom always says it’s because I’m overly sensitive, but I can’t help it. I don’t have a box to hide my emotions the way Shoji does.

I draw a girl without a face, drawing somebody else’s face onto her own reflection.

I’ll never understand Mom’s obsession with trying to get us to stay close to her. Maybe she’s afraid of being alone. Or maybe she likes the idea of being a family more than she likes actually being a family.

She can’t be the villain if she’s the victim.

I paint a woman who steals hearts, but none of them fit the hole inside her empty, black chest.

I can’t help it—I laugh so loud that the sound bounces off the street and fills my own ears. For a second I’m stunned by the noise, and I can hear it in my head long after it’s quiet again.

Hearts aren’t meant to be broken an infinite amount of times.

I draw a girl living on the edge of a crescent moon, staring down at the earth and not missing it at all.

It’s a photograph from a lifetime ago—a snapshot of what our friendship was like. Two wildly happy children with our faces close together and our arms around each other’s necks because sometimes we felt like one person.

“I want you to tell me a story. Tell me anger. Tell me sorrow. Tell me happiness. Just tell me something that matters to you.”

I’d rather have an ugly face than an ugly heart.

It’s a thought that makes me want to rip out my insides and replace them with anything else. I don’t ever want to be a starfish.

I draw a dragon breaking free from its grave and finally seeing what its wings and fire are for.

When he calms down, he hugs me and says he thinks I’m the strongest person in the world, as strong as a polar bear.