Across cultures, women and girls are expected to do the cleaning. I’ve subscribed to that role. Here I begin my task, as man watches from afar.

On the car ride towards school, my stomach aches and bends. Anxiety translates into nausea and my apple slices start to brown.

Maybe this cold metal box represents salvation, a sight of comfort. It’s a sight I’ve come to recognize. My muted discomfort.

Leave the mess behind