February 26th, 2012. My henna fades, orange lines blurring into form and shape, detail disappearing into pores. I sit on the second floor porch outside our room, Nalgene chipped and dirty and full with bitter water. I am the only in my group. Jack, short for something unpronounceable, found me as I strode towards gate three, the meeting point, arms of lead and suitcases, tourist tshirt my name.
I gushed about the buildings glimmering tall and angular through the night, the traffic, worse in India but I didn't say that because he complained, the heat and the taxi driver talked in clipped oriental sounds of why the air-conditioning wasn't working, and I just wanted to get there, how much longer did you say?
The others have traveled before, swam in mountainous rivers with elephants, slid and watered at parks and toured temples, hoping. They decorate the s
Dcked whit drudges with drawing for the staff, a red pocohontas, a sunburnt Ariel. TO JIEW! LOVE SAM AND ABBY and I wonder where I will fit. We sit at the kitchen table downstairs, and I eat a plate of tart pineapple. They ask questions, care not for my replies, my reliefs.
I wake hours before my twinkling alarm, find company of bits who peck the ruddy roof parallel. My ankle holds poison, the hit of a bump rising. I play plush Spanish music.
I am anywhere, I think, wiping the oblong beads of sweat that form on my nose tip.
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