When they told me I was leaving. I began to take stock of the things I would have to do without. I think that if leaving is a type of death then everyone I know has already outlived me. If leaving is a type of growth then I must be the part that needs to be shed. I envy things that cannot speak and so I speak for them. That a plant could stay rooted without being asked whether it belonged. That a bed would not need a passport to be part of a home. I'm laying out the last eight years of my life in visas and work authorizations. I'm wondering about the person who sealed an envelope with their tongue with America inside. Calling myself an immigrant feels too much like a lie. It always seemed too permanent to me. Until now. I don't know how to explain to people that I am even less than that. That I always knew I was leaving.

*

And here I thought I had made myself American enough. Tamed my accent enough. Made it seem like I didn't mind the cold enough. I picture myself in the screening room of the San Francisco airport: showing Tim the immigration officer my Spotify playlist. My Instagram. Maybe if he could see the kind of music I liked, let my friends' white faces stand in for mine, he would realize what a horrible mistake he's made. 'Can't you see my whole life is here?' I'd say, and he'd apologize, and set me free.

*

I have always been. A selfish person. Desiring things I cannot have. Aching for things others have ached for. Only louder. A command in the cry. The extraction of a promise. In the 'I hate to go' always the 'tell me to stay'. Fight for me. Bloody your knuckles for me. Let them know I am worth keeping. I apologize. I have never been one for patience. Maybe having to leave. Is an opposite ache. A kind of punishment.

*

You want to know the truth? The truth is that there are things you will never get to do. The truth is that you ran out of time. You wanted to knit a blanket. Something to feel like home. But home is a fire and it’s smoking you out, and what good is a home if it hurts you? Feed the flame before it takes without your permission. You are running out of time. You are running out of time.

*

This year. Living in America has felt like living. In a house on fire. Like loving. The person who set the blaze. I am worried. That I am more flame now than flesh. That I will see fire. And call it home. Let it turn me to ash. Make the person that rises after. Unrecognizable. Still. When I tell you that America. Is a house on fire. That is not to say. It is the only one. Not to say. That my own home did not smoke me out. First. Sometimes. I can still feel the heat of it. Some singed version of me that I carry. Like a ghost. She reminds me what it feels like. To burn.