/dysthymia./dysphoria./diaspora./

/Distal/middle/proximal./
/Metacarpal/carpal/ulna/radius/humerus./
I am made of sticks, of broken bits
of chalk on pavement, of
/bone/cartilage/tendon/muscle/skin/
///F///A///T///
Error. System failure.
Shutdown in
/4/3/2/

Flesh from flesh from
/tri/gly/cer/ide./
I dream Mā cups me
in her soft palm and runs
me under water—baptized
anew—and cleaves the skin
from my bone.
Anything, anything
so long as I am ripe and sweet
and beautifully
small again.

(秘密：The day I tried on those jeans
was the first day I cried in public. But
Mā, you waited outside the fitting room
and never even knew.)

/Patella/femur/pelvis./
/Sacrum/ilium/lumbar/sternum/clavicle./
I am stripes, am lines, am bars
cramming the mouth of a prison cell.
Behind my ribcage, I can feel
my hummingbird heartbeat.
But I cannot see my
/r/i/b/s/
through that thick white casing of
self-indulgence, of lazy
///F///A///T///
/Error/error/error/

Skin from skin from
/cel/lul/ite./
I hold swan-still
and graceful:
one leg swept up—
pillar, pole, paper.
I split myself new red lips
all down my right
thigh, new slender
bamboo strips.
This is not my body.
This is not my body.

By E. Lian