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a little panicked
and still impressive
I prefer shoes that don't require socks
this way, I don't get too comfortable wearing that which walks me into society
I have gotten my polyester confused with skin before

slightly manic
and daily depressive
my resolutions expire by the thread of the laundry I pick up, one by one, only a piece per morning
I step on old intentions as I dress

probably landsick
and nonaggressive
I never learned to swim, yes, the one thing I never did, but I don't wear socks to prepare, I think, for the day I decide to stop walking
When I finally stand up not to dress but to dive
Jenny Liu Zhang Sep 2018
For a baby, I am unkempt,
But for an adult, I am very unkempt.
People can tell me my age just by looking,
So when I bashfully admit I am 21,
I actually have no bash left,
Because I used all of it on my ***** sneakers and chipping nail polish,
and hangnails and tangled split ends in a scrunchie,
and leftover acne from the homecoming dance when I tried to erase it away with my mother’s makeup, two shades too light, two left feet as I had not grown fully into my limbs.
And they can see how aware I was of my pointy chin when I was thirteen years of self-conscious, repeating all the better responses to conversations, like my life was some laugh track sitcom,
just like I do right now,
many days, still,
in notebooks, to plants, to the bank machine, to the mirror at the optometrist, to the grocer when I run errands,
because even though now I run errands and have checks to cash,
I still have baby hair to bash,
and I laugh the same laugh,
with my eyes that turn into little moons,
thinking in the same cartoons,
under good eyebrows, though unkempt,
above the toil of braces and 21 years of chapped lips.
Jenny Liu Zhang Aug 2018
From the 36th story, the city looks awfully like a eukaryote.
Satellites probably admire Earth’s textures similarly.
This planet is probably a molecule, I think,
The surface of which nests more life—mold?—in skyscrapers, terrace orchards, traffic, the cracks on your lover’s lips.
When scientists do their science thing and peek into their microscopes,
Do they see a molecule?
Do they see a zoom view of another planet, some snapshot of a romantic lake, vessels cruising into war, or even a closer moment like a first kiss, abstract tendrils of new love?
If science can get that close to alternative realities, maybe I should quit my day job to become a scientist.
Or a satellite.
To examine something closely every day is to magnify and dwell in life itself.
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