By: Manmayi Ghaisas

I turn my cheek, but they are the same.

I turn my feet, still the same.

Made from perfect cookie cutters,

Sparkling with embellishments.

Trees, plants, and flowers, like estranged brothers and sisters.

Beautiful, but beautiful all the same.

The houses here are the same. Always the same, as far as the eye can see.

I cautiously stride inside, passing the dampened grass that stings my ankles with frigid dew.

I glide over the red roses,

like gentle fingertips in the night.

Always the same flowers, smelling of the same sugars.

My feet push on the hardwood floors. The same mahogany.

Then they hit me like a slap from the wind.

A million different thoughts, a million different conversations, a million different dreams.

In one house, a family fights, pushes, and shoves.

In another, they share a warm embrace of sweetness and honey.

My eyes widen and I realize

The houses are born from cookie cutters

The people inside are not.

Always different, as far as the eye can see.