I held my legs up to my chest with my arms
surrounding my knees, a worn composition book
balanced atop them. The cardboard cover and
flimsy pages were held between my index and
middle finger. My eyes scanned the little writing
that I had on the page. My wrist fidgeted with each
stroke of my pen.

Every so often, a mosquito would attack my
exposed arm or leg, and I would furiously attempt
to crush it between my sweaty palms. Lizards
would scurry past my sandals, and I would
throw at them the small, bruised mangoes that
lay scattered across the rusted patio table. Sweat
dripped down from my forehead and armpits as the
rays of the Florida sun peaked through the screen.

All that encompassed my mind was my ability to
finish this story. I did not care about the ache in my
fingers or the dryness of my mouth. Nor the loss of
feeling in my legs or the churning of my stomach
not even the sounds of excitement from the family
watching the soccer match in the living room or
the sound of my mother calling my name in an
unpleasant tone stirred me. These things were all
pushed into the depths of my mind as I continued
to write.

Tears formed at the corners of my eyes because I
knew that these pages were filled with many errors.
I knew that these pages were filled with all the
things that I believed I could not say. With a knot
in my throat, a fluttering mind, and an anxiousness
that bubbled from my stomach, I attempted to
create my own Utopia.