by Fern Biswas
when someone walks behind me
I stop and look back.
dead silent as though waiting
to hear the clicks of the heels of their shoes against concrete
the jingling of their jewelry, a necklace or ring
and the cracking of knuckles
like kernels which just popped in the microwave
when someone walks behind me
I shut my mouth and turn around
waiting for whispers
loaded with heavy gallons of water
as though in a tight balloon
whose knot is about to burst
the brightening of the fluorescent lights
rising and rising until the radiation makes me again beg the question
Of whether I should be wearing sunscreen indoors
“you aren’t supposed to look directly at the sun” so I turn and look to the floor,
waiting for the brightness to dial down
the material of the black, leather sofas
Scratches my skin
until all that’s left is an exposed mound of rotten flesh
when someone walks behind me,
my eyes twitch as they begin to burn
and I close them
but what I see in the dark is far worse,
and I tear them back open in desperation
when someone walks behind me
I put my hand on my keys
and undo my ponytail
I speed up just a bit
And wait for their awkward clacking
As they speed up after me
but they don’t.
when someone walks behind me
my throat closes
my heart races
my stomach falls further and further down
and I look around
at the judgmental eyes,
demanding me to answer
why my hand suddenly tightens
around the pillow I am holding.
Fern Biswas is a student from San Jose, California.