Jason Tandon

     I ask my love if she would still love me if I only had half a face.
     No, she says.
     I stand behind the door jamb exposing half my face.
     You have to picture it—half would be sheer skin, same complexion, and the other half would have one eye, half a nose and mouth.
     You're being disgusting, she says, and advances her pegs on the board.
     And to review, she says, I wouldn't love you if your fingers had no knuckles; if you'd been born with one foot backwards—I won't feel sorry for you because you're losing.
     I'm not looking for pity! I want to know, seriously now, would you still love me if I only had half a face?
     That's not funny, she says. For some people it's probably an everyday reality.
     How shallow you are! I cry and return to my seat.
     A dowel snaps and I fall to the floor.
     Fatty, she says, shuffling the deck, I wouldn't even be your friend.



I am currently in 'time-out' until I learn to play nicely with the other children.