CLICK. REWIND. The VCR whirs and my mind starts mediating.

Just one more time.

The actress captures my eleven-year-old mind. Her porcelain skin—exquisite; long black hair—luxurious; strong sullen voice—sensuous.

My eyes bounce around and behind me; take the temperature. Check for fluctuations around the room.

Mother approves of changing appearances. Father overlooks what we were like before.

Fingers tremble toward the PLAY button.

Why does my stomach flutter?

Six years later the word lesbian seeps out sideways like lava. Mother denies it; Father ignores it; I try to outrun it.

For now I bury it.

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Read the micro-nonfiction as first published on The

Read the interview: PVCC Creative Writing Student Recognized by National Publication