This isn't the kind of writing I should be doing right now. I'm running out of time to be a nonacademic. But I'm waiting for my hair to dry and the smell of fruit and coconut remind me of when I was much younger and wiser than I am today. Because back then, knowledge would change me. It would enter into my body and shift my skin in all crazy directions until my pimply face mutated into something new entirely. It would transform my bones and joints until my fingers twisted into knots the way my mother would wring the laundry out to dry.
These days I don't come into knowing anymore. I hold it to the side of my tongue; pull out the arguments of dead white men when I forget how to speak my own words. I'm forgetting the stories my dad would whisper me to sleep.