Running for President

[Texting with a very good old friend]

You: i miss you. how was your day?

Me: not too bad, although I think sunday is my least favorite day of the week

You: why is that?

At the start of the weekend, I watched two ancient white men yell at each other in front of America. My little brothers used to fight like that, I said to no one in particular, except more intelligibly.

These men don’t have mothers to set them straight.

Me: it’s so anticipatory

Part of me had always wanted to run for president. Not like this. I felt something crumbling inside of me as they reached for words. Never the right ones.

Words flat, empty, borrowed, re-polished––blue. His promises felt like ghosts.

Words short, hateful, lying, intrusive––red. His passion felt like danger.

Answers given out as carelessly as candy––offered as filler until the next possible moment to attack the other. To shove meat down our throats and ignore the dying animal of democracy.

Me: i’m just on edge the whole time

Hoping Biden will get it right, begging him to.

Of course, he’s already had his shot. But we love giving infinite chances to the intimately few.

Trump, of course, knows this.

You: i totally get that

i feel like sunday is the day to cry. its when everything i held in all week comes out

After the debate was over, I pulled out a pad of blue Post-it notes, and wrote in thick, dark ink. I wrote down what I wanted to do, and who I wanted to be.

Like the candidates on screen, I didn’t think.

“…I want to be a lawyer. I want to fight for something bigger than I will ever be. I want to be a writer. I want my words to re-arrange the world and give people hope, so they can be the change themselves…”

Me: i love you

You: i love you too

The election will come and go. The notes will stay on my wall.

[Go vote]