you call me a poet // i call it vocal sin.

speak(ing) of the devil, he rides the train

past heaven, licks his lips and pulls in

humanity's station - there i'm waiting,

for him. there's a numbing in my bones

i've yet to know // watch the fish ripple

through my veins; still, there's no name

for my condition.

pre-paid tragedy // not made for loving.

the devil draws his head back to laugh,

my sweatt drips down the suitcase -

blood red - in my hands. weathered skin

crushed against expectation, raising my arms

to show him // the devil hisses, said

rewriting stars is a dreadful art, leaves you with

half finished hearts. i would claim the devil

a cruel man - if only, he had no truth to him.

grief tastes gold on the lips; but,

i'm not there yet. connecting suns

like stars as if they know anything;

sing to a goodbye, not a farewell

since the former brings me hope

with the latter my heart fell.

they’re no windows, they’re hauntings; with a brown eye wandering and a hollow one crying: hello? can anyone see me? it’s mocking. and lips that curve to curiosity, lipstick flavored silence because i refuse prying, it’s overbearing. empty thoughts are screaming: nobody kisses innocent lips, nobody tries when there’s nothing worth gaining. traveling gaze to broad shoulders (skip over the corner lip birthmark, it’s hideous i know). collar bone sticks out (corpse’s pride); no hiding a crooked spine; necklaces can’t cover up bone, but when best friend gives a necklace, there’s no denying the beautiful memory of it. yet, scoliosis whispers: you’re short, slouching, messed up- no one wants genetic deficiency. sealed mentions on jumping into skinny jeans or how crop tops don’t fit right. yet hear mundane craving for the skin color you don’t have.

took over a decade, coming to terms with being mixed and the labeling question of what are you? not to hurt the way it did (what kind of question is that? as if the color of my skin was a what and a right to know by all those who witness it?).

hidden; i keep it all hidden. i live in sweats and shirts that leave tans; with whale necklaces from the beach as my hometown mocks it; semi-popular shoes since they’re cute and combat boots whenever i know there’s no one there, as though it’s an invitation to mock them. with hair falling from the scalp a cadaver can’t even compare, but one notices because mother said it’s all an exaggeration in my head; soon the curls that bounce down my back, will fall to my shoulders and it’ll turn the color my heart bleeds whenever i think of him. what’s the name of a style raised on the coast, lives in the midwest, travels to cities, yet longs for the place to call home?

it’s like this: staring in a mirror there’s the human zombie covered up in complexity. never desired being pretty, just perhaps beautiful to somebody. self-worth, a bitter-sweet word, tasted it a couple years ago: i know i’m not ugly, but there’s always room to improve. the best feeling in the world is when someone mentions your looks and heart positively, never forcefully.

ask the skeleton watering his roots; the flower blooms,

as the muscle beats to the pitter-patter tune. grow emotion,

miss the allusion once the canvas is painted raw but new:

follow your heart's a pretentious phrase; cliches are only broken

when society begs for their way.

& while eternity’s too many syllables for a broken word;

crumble the note. light the match, blow the smoke,

we’re salted ash and broken bone: watch through eyes

that aren’t your own, blind? those truths bind.

you’ve burned the innocent, cry. tragedy’s an overused

drug for me, sorrow’s simply ugly; bloodied knuckles

drying, gold tears staining. the statue of an angel mocks me,

we adore mythology; i digress.

Questionable queries by quixotical queens who judge quietly and quiz aggressively, quickly coming to their conclusions and quivering with joy when their harsh quips are met with quaking laughter.

Will they ever quit

knowing that their antiquated ideals

are causing disquietude—

quaint and quirky

they are most definitely not

just cliquish quacks

in need of an internal inquiry

of their mental inventory

sleeping’s a trap; that concept that licks your soul clean,

clawing your skin, craving to be let in - no, it’s either

your heart or your soul or your mind that’s not letting

that sleep encase your entity; no. i’m just trying to sleep;

i think, i don’t really know.

to: -----

from: me

i don’t know. can writing be a ghost? it’s haunting, the poetic words echoing inside my skull and the one-liners hanging from the ceiling fan. picking up a fine point sharpie, index card slides in front of me- it’s like this, you see, lunacy pricking the skin and somehow you’re writing thirteen words in five lines and have the audacity to call it poetry.

word wall’s hanging by a pin; my fingers trace the words, aching to soak them in; but there’s no moving it, my soul’s screaming while my heart’s bleeding; conflictingconflictingconflicting.

there was a reason for this letter, i swear; but now it’s like forcing a chef to cook and it doesn’t feel right. tell me, can we share small victories? can we take each day like a pebble or stone and hold it as our own; let’s build our castle of victories and if they burn, they’ll be diamond rings.

shortest letter i’ll ever right, with a point far deeper than meaning. taking a break from writing doesn’t mean leaving, it means healing. but that’s what happens when you lose your muse. when you lose your muse. when you lose your muse.

we’re okay, you’re okay, i’m okay too.

The last dregs of sunset spill out through the drawn curtains, bathing the bedroom in the soft, dulcet gold of the lowering sun. The room is swathed in mellow light. As if recognizing how the evening’s beginning to settle, the aircon’s quieted to a dull hum.

Sha Yexing pushes her face petulantly into the bed’s sheets. It’s hot. Which, really, of course, would be better if she simply kicked the blankets off, but she’s tired. She is! And it’s not like it’s just laziness—an entire day of tennis matches would easily have incapacited anyone just the same. Seriously. Seriously!

Lu Jing hums obligingly in response, and she realizes she’s been mumbling these thoughts out loud. The bed sinks next to her. She cracks open an eye to watch her boyfriend settle himself, laying on his side, head pillowed on his arm, facing her.

“Hurts,” Sha Yexing complains, playing it up a little with a whine for her poor, piteous state. “Sore.”

Lu Jing gently brushes a damp strand of hair out of her face. “Did you stretch?”

Ah. Well. No, she technically didn’t. But Sha Yexing was beyond that! The aircon suddenly starts back up again. Some distant ambulance siren far outside blares, the sound waning and dulling as it drives away. Lu Jing lets out a small, amused breath at her lack of a response.

“Gege thinks so little of me,” she answers instead, fluttering her lashes as she uses the very small amount of energy she has to wriggle closer to him.

He smiles at her softly, eyebrow slightly raised. “I think you’re avoiding the question.”

“Xing-er would never,” Sha Yexing breathes out, going for a falsely accosted look. She thumps her head against his chest once she’s close enough. Breathes in the scent of pastries from his patterned sleep clothes. “Xing-er’s such a good girl.”

Lu Jing huffs out a quiet laugh again. “Does it still hurt?”

“Mn.”

“Same places?”

“Mhm.”

His hands gently find their way to her waist, then to her lower back. Sha Yexing sighs in contentment, wrapping an arm around him and finally nuzzling his chest in earnest. He pushes the fabric of her night shirt up, and she pulls back to look up at him mischievously. Lu Jing clicks his tongue, shaking his head at her, fond.

He gently kneads the tense knots there, calloused fingertips against her damp skin working at the tight muscles beneath. She gives a muffled groan as the aches begin to slowly bleed away.

“It really does hurt,” Sha Yexing whispers at some point, voice slurred with drowsiness. "’M not lying.”

“I know you’re not,” Lu Jing answers, soft. Indulgent. Always so indulgent. Some awful part of her subconscious wants to take his indulgence and see how much of the twisted greed inside her it could take. The more present part of her mind hushes this, and the thoughts are easily dispelled by sleepiness.

Even more gently, as if sensing her drooping eyelids, Lu Jing gently slides his hand to the back of her knee, then pulls it softly so her leg is hitched across his hip. The movement has Sha Yexing blinking awake, and she feels a wicked smile curl at the corner of her lips as he works at the sore muscles of her leg.

“Gege’s awfully bold today,” she croons, shifting her head from beneath his chin.

“Yexing,” Lu Jing says, blinking, sensing her mischief.

She presses a kiss to his clavicle, grinning against his skin when he jolts ever so slightly. “You took photos of my matches? Did gege like the color of the skirt I picked out?”

He’s quiet, as if considering and recalling. “It went nicely with your sun visor,” Lu Jing answers thoughtfully.

“So gege paid attention to it.” She pauses, thinking to poke her tongue out suddenly to feel him flinch again, but decides against it. “Xing-er can wear a different one that he likes more, next time.”

Lu Jing says, “You always look pretty in any outfit.”

Sha Yexing stills. Her devilish smile fades, mind halting with the genuine statement. She’s not sure how to respond when she stops the teasing, stops the play-fishing for compliments.

“Thank you,” she whispers, sounding confused. Then, firmer, “thank you.”

Lu Jing hums.

She holds him tighter, suddenly. The awful voice in her head starts up again, a choir of terrible chanting, stay, stay, stay, perfect, you’re beautiful, you’re too good, be mine, mine, mine.

Ignoring them, she says, “Lu Jing is...nice in...everything, too.” Sha Yexing cringes at how the words fail to come out right. How to tell someone that they’re too brilliant to describe? “And...thank you, gege.”

The sunset blankets them, warm. In the quiet song of their intertwined heartbeats, the stars begin to creep into the sky.

#jingxing

after leila chatti

No birds. No stars. No one remembering how they’re

dead but how brilliant they are. No one saying that

the sun’s just another star, no shaping it in the face of

a lover long lost. No more other realities. No more other lives.

The truth is that we get this one and then we blow it

before we ever had the chance. Again, no birds. No more

metaphors about how they’re flying and how they’re free.

I can’t stand being so full of envy anymore. No more you.

Who in God’s name is the you, ever, anyways? This poem

isn’t for you. I want it to be for me. I want to be selfish in

a piece for once. I’m so tired nowadays. There are no

bird wings or Greek muses that could change that. I’m scared,

and it is not poetic. There is no rebirth that makes this better.

It doesn’t matter that we see the same moon at night, or

the fact that you can pretend I’m the lover stuck in it. I’m just

angry all the time that it saw you first. Would you still love me

if you didn’t have to. If I didn’t say that you’re the one in some

flash fiction piece where you save me. Would you still love me if

you knew how hopeless I was. I said this poem wasn’t for you, but

maybe I’m just angry all the time that you can only appear in stanzas,

anyways. I will make no euphemisms. I am hurt and alone.