early in the morning I’m an ordinary customer at the local bakery down the street
around noon I’m an editor, scrutinizing unrecognizable words I scribbled in an unfamiliar mood
every afternoon I’m the professor of a language the colonizers shoved down my throat only for me to settle in the West and teach it right back
the evenings make me a daughter as I speak to my ageing parents from across the globe and we gossip as if we’re sitting on the same sofa
in the darkest hour of the day I am a writer fearlessly vulnerable and honest in the comfort of my bedroom where the monsters from under my bed have now become the monsters that lie with me in it
all day I effortlessly shed my roles and take up the next like a chameleon who changes its color so often, he forgets the color of the complexion that lies beneath them all – beneath them all is the one color that does not change; if I am a chameleon then being your little sister is the one role I cannot and will not ever shed.