my palms are flowering with white cul-de-sacs
tied with crisp ribbons and dyed crimson at the tips,
they lure drooling blue and brown and hazel eyes
towards the glorious American Dream.
black eyes are not on this color spectrum.
black eyes possess a void—
a void that not even papier-mâché can fill.
I lick lilacs off my fingertips,
varnish my skin with sticky oils,
hoping to sweeten my blood for birds to peck at
maybe if the fat is gone, my eyes will have more space.
maybe then my eyes won’t be mistaken for
a slit of a button hole in my lint-eaten flannel.
I dream of a day where having folds
in the crest of my lid will open caverns to light
and my yellowing skin doesn’t stench
of the fat tofu I ate.
please spare me of this tyrant king’s reign,
quench the fires that gulp syllables like pulp.
I want to be nestled in the crook of your shoulder
I want to be lulled to sleep with a song about dried raisins
I want to breathe of candlewicks and dusty closets,
but for now, I’ll marinate under these stolen stars.
By Katherine Wei
Katherine is currently a sophomore attending BASIS Chandler in Arizona. She likes to skateboard, paint acrylic portraits, and play volleyball. Her writing has been recognized by Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and been published by Risen Zine, Page and Spine, Life in 10, and many others.
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