white marks mask my nine-year-old

skin from the itch that lingers

after wearing my sa-bai lingers.

golden earrings, ruby flower pins --

the clothes my ancestors wore

leave redness on my skin.

the eye-burning pixels are

they teach me how not to be myself.

their words like crimson cotton-candy,

with the taste of dead roses,

staining my fingers, sticky,

until movement became uncomfortable.

i escape the filtered world that studies the flaws of my features.

reroute to the roots of morning glory and red-chili sown

by my now-gone feminine dexterity.

the nostalgic air imbued by over-spiced-eastern-cuisine

and a touch of cilantro and peppercorn.

but with every breath of the reinvigorating air,

i return to the cotton candy.

to the blue-pink colors on my fingers,

covering my yellow-tan sin.

wishing my deep-brown, “boring”

eyes were honey-glazed.

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I looked over to the walls of the room Nothing, nothing but mirrors. Mirrors reflecting me from every angle. My best, my worst, every side… All so fragile. To what do I owe this dangerous world. This


when i call upon the mischief that undulated beneath this undying land, under air sheathed with a foul taste of the flosses of flying, cotton-candy stained with tar, saturated with disappointment and

return home

cicada sounds beneath mellow sunlight, aubade from the east, where the sun rises. dances in black velvet clothing and sphere silver beads, embellished with blue, pink, and mango yellow tassels. a thou