I’m just like Albert Einstein except that I got diarrhea
by Emma Bombail

I’m just like Albert Einstein
except that I am a woman
and I’m not a Jew.

I’m all spastic since I got my nails done,
Baby pink ovals they look like the ones the first ever Barbie would have
worn.
I feel my face flushing,
and my breasts are light
for the first time since I’m eight.
Light like A-cup tits. I’m probably a B. I don’t know. I don’t try to
know those things because I never walked into a lingerie store.

Since I got my nails done I can only type loudly
And keep my hands so straight and flat,
hovering parallels over the greasy keys
because yes,
I am a girl
and not just any girl
a bus man,
so I never clean my keyboard.

My brain is buzzing and
I’m trying to figure out what gave me diarrhea,
and I have several options. I could lay them down here.

First is,
the stress and strain
induced by the revelations
of my two last analysis sessions.

Second
a reason so sharp
it could slit its own throat.
A reason so delicate
it folds itself into a neat, invisible square
and hides inside my mouth. A reason I cannot name

Third
Is that toxic T.J.Maxx
James Bean bourbon cinnamon-flavored coffee
Asma bought me as a thank you gift.
Thank you, diarrhea! They wouldn’t even allow me
in a Californian swimming pool.

Maybe I’m just realizing
I haven’t been a woman for so long, if not ever.

I’m typing like crazy,
like a big-breasted, big-headed madwoman,
and I am snorting every two minutes
because I’m in the school library,
in open space
for all to see.

I wonder what they think
seeing a madwoman sitting there
in the very middle of a green leather couch.

I’m thinking if I
Will ever share this text with anyone
Will I send it to Zara
And why is my head spinning
like I had seventeen cups of coffee?

Albert Einstein said he slept ten hours a night,
and I am going to be just like him,
because I need the brain power for my writing.
I will discover great things with my writing. I am a physicist.

I got on a FaceTime call with Emmett yesterday and he said I love that
you love crooners and then he said I’m a crooner myself and I didn’t
say anything. I said I’d listen to his song and I didn’t.

I forgot about the fourth reason
which could be the thing I did on Friday,
the thing that bends time,
that makes ceilings breathe,
that burns toasts into Disneyland.

Well it’s been four days but those things can destroy your gut,
I assume.

The fifth reason
could be the yoga session I had this morning,
and the short, hurried run
to the UPS access point convenience store.
I said
Why don’t I have empathy
for the women in my family?
They don’t just have personal stories.
They were undone,
and I shut myself down.








You know I hate it when people write exclusively in lowercase but this
time I had to be quick.

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