January 7, 2015
The night I danced on icy roof in Prague
Was the night people were shot dead in France
Je suis Charlie!
But I wasn’t.
At least not me and drunken friends dancing on icy roof
Boy wanted girl and girl said no but wasn’t strong enough
So I stepped in and kicked the boy. Wrong boy.
This boy loved me. And me?
“I’m just not feeling it.”
I wasn’t feeling a lot of things that night.
Dancing on icy roof
in cut off shorts my mom made,
because who can afford to buy them?
and an old scratchy sweater,
I stole from my dad.
I danced to the sound of brisk air and white noise.
“Lesbo” was a common taunt when I was in the 7th
Had nothing to do with actually liking girls.
I just wasn’t feeling boys.
My head cared more for comfort in words bound by time
Than the comfort of some guy’s arms.
Dancing on icy roof,
I wasn’t in the 7th grade anymore.
Wearing clothes much too large to hide a body,
square and boyish.
Legs too long, meant for jumping.
Meant for dancing on icy roof.
Prague didn’t care that I lied about hating my English teacher.
Didn’t care that I re-read Hamlet twice.
Didn’t care that I watched the news on my Saturday nights.
Didn’t care that I laughed too loud or snorted when the joke was too good.
Didn’t care that I bounced in my step.
And didn’t care that I had people call me Kiana because some idiot in kindergarten
Said my name was ugly.
Prague was made from light.
And despite its darkness it glittered gold;
Like my heart did when I learned how to read.
Like my heart did
That night, dancing on icy roof in Prague,
I kicked the first boy to ever love me,
And people were shot to death in Paris
Je suis Charlie.
But I wasn’t Charlie.I was the gun.