she breathed noxious air as a child,
toxic, roiling poison. clouds of malevolent vapor
choking mediocrity to death.
there was no joy
without flawlessness.

both her parents are wanderers,
dreamers called to the land of endless potential,
born in the East beneath swaying coconut leaves
and the fragrant papaya tree
and the looming shadow that is poverty.
“We had it worse,” they remind her,
raising the mountain even higher
every time she dares to think she’s reached the top.
her father used to sell gum on the sidewalk
and her sister ate nothing but soy sauce and rice
all beneath the blistering, humid heat of the tropics.

when her 8th grade teacher tells the class
to write nice notes to each other
the only thing her friends see
is her 10/10 math workbook
and not her.
she is just their cheat sheet
and their notebook.
she crumples the notes with shaking fists.
what is expected is not impressive.
“good job” is the same as “do it again”.

she carries their words on her shoulders.
titanic stones, breaking bones,
“you are not enough.”
she reminds herself that the stars waver too
on the night her father strikes her across the face
for the first and only time
and bitter bile scorches her tongue.
hideous insults would spiral from her pink lips
if she still had a voice.

anger is not smoke,
does not move with the winds of change.
so she carves red lines into her wrist, new gills
to breathe out the pain,
vents for the poison.
her only lifeline.
when she turned thirteen
she sat on the worn curb dotted with old gum
and watched the sun set on her youth.