God is not human.
Only humans can **** and
mourn in the same day.

content warning: blood, violence, panic attack

I sit
in the emptiness
of the family room
by myself.

Cradle my head in my hands,
unable to close my eyes
as they stare through
the gaps between my fingers.

Despite the still environment,
my heart is racing
alongside the thoughts:
run or they’ll **** you, so much blood…

The door opens despite the lock.
So
much
BLOOD!

Mother steps in,
her boyfriend,
my sister too,
grandma and grandpa.

Tears slip between my fingers,
unwilling to be held behind my last sense of self-control.
The lock failed, I'm terrified
seeing the blood-driven amusement across their faces.

“Look!” My sister calls,
and I see the meat cleaver she’s holding slice through mom’s head.
So much blood.
Mom laughs from the floor.

Grandfather holds a gun up to sister’s head, and then
the pieces of her splattered across the walls
laugh in crescendo.
I’m different from them.

They approach me now.
I know I’ll die.
I have no means of fighting back
with these useless, shaky hands.

Hands that inscribe their own pain
into my cheeks,
nails peeling the skin away
as I panic.

I’m going to die,
and I scream like it.
“Stay away from me!”
So much blood.
_
Everything was dark
by the time I returned to.
My braid was ruined,
and darkness still clouded my vision.

Mom is screaming at me,
demanding to know if I had taken anything.
The panic seizes control over me again,
my hands trying to defend me from my own mind,

tugging at my braid,
wet with tears,
sobbing as I realize
I ruined it.

I ruined it,
I will pay with my blood for causing
more shame for mom,
and more trauma for my sister.

Mom finally softens,
something she hasn’t done
for a long time.
“I think you’re having a panic attack.”

I promise,
I’m a good girl;
I stay away from
narcotics, alcohol, sin.

Traditional stuff you’d find
at parties:
bustling, joyous laughter,
celebrating their momentary acceptance.

Girls my age are supposed to
lose her individuality in the heat of the moment,
find herself as the collective energy of the crowd,
dance, fight, scream.

They fight off the night’s
darkness, silence, coldness,
for the party’s
brightness, sound, warmth.

I remain
alone,
allowing the night’s emptiness
to swallow me whole.

Surrounded by darkness,
I notice its layers—
the infinite depths of reality
threatening to tear us all apart.

Just as anyone else,
I’m not as good as I should be.
Despite the comfort I have in
barely keeping myself afloat,

I want
to feel
something
too.

I drink energy drinks at night.
Not so bad, right?
I thought the same
against my mother’s warning:

"Never drink those!"
Despite being able to recall
coloring within the lines of a coloring book
at a hospital:

seeing my dad be pushed in a wheelchair
out of the operation room.
His spirit was stolen,
and his heart would tick forever as a reminder.

Compared to the other girls, I
lose my individuality in the loneliness of the night,
find myself in the emotionality night wraps me in:
watch, listen, wait.

My heart struggles to keep up as I drink
more, more, more.
I smile, and finally my thoughts run as quickly as my peers—
beat, beat, beat.

I’m tired of being a girl,
of failing to live up to inhuman expectations,
or fitting in with those sweaty bodies.
I wish the glory of femininity didn’t end with girlhood.

Instead of playing with human sensuality,
I play with human mortality
in what I’d like to call
a college student’s version of Russian roulette.

warning: ****** assault, domestic violence

Before:
Daddy yells at momma.
He’s upset that after she made me,
she’s too tired to be with him.

I step into the kitchen
where my pieces of DNA were fighting.
I had just started going to school,
and I was too young to realize:

kids really are helpless
in situations like these.
He shoves momma’s clothes off
so quickly;

I was paralyzed.
I couldn’t move.
I didn’t know
what was going on.

My momma screams in retaliation,
“You *******! She’s right there!”
I’ll never forget the cruel glint in his eyes.
“She won’t remember.”


Then:
As a thirteen-year-old,
I was braced for war.
Momma told me:

“Remember the pain
I went through?
Your father…
Make him pay!”

You’re right,
momma.
I know what you went through.
I’m sorry I am still part of him.

Empty bottles litter the floor
just like the pictures of bodies
in my history textbook.
I stand from amongst them,

glaring at him
as he snores on the couch.
At the time, I didn’t understand why
dad would pass out so quickly sometimes.

Carefully,
I step over the bottles,
making my way over to the sleeping beast.
I’m scared he’ll wake up.

Ah! Just like in my favorite books,
the villain’s neck is wide open!
I reach my hand out,
clutching my pretend dagger—

I **** him!
With elation, I suddenly feel
the curse that tied me to him
leave.

The steady rise and fall of his stomach
brings my spirits back to reality.
Disgust twists across my face,
and I deliver a punch to his beer belly.

He sputters,
standing on his feet in a rage.
“You—
You’ll never understand what I went through!”

My instinct is to run and hide,
but I instead stand proudly,
puffing out my chest.
“I wish you were never my dad!”

I smile to myself,
giddy in hopes that
momma would stop crying
and be proud of me.

He looks hurt by it.
I’m happy!
He never comforted us!
I throw out a few curse words to try to scare him.

That only makes him angry.
“Get over ‘ere,” he says through gritted teeth.
He grabs me by the waist of my pants.
My momma is worth whatever he does to me!

After:
Preparing to graduate from college
with high honors
and a position at my dream job,
I should be happy.

Yet I can't help but realize
it has been a decade since I’ve spoken to my dad.
Mom is with a new man.
He touches me in ways dad never did.

If I was thirteen,
I’d find the ten year anniversary as a reason to celebrate.
“That much closer to removing his curse!”
I would think.

I’m even more disgusted by my mom
spending all of her time with her boyfriend
than I ever did when
dad brought women over.

If the curse is supposed to be disappearing, then
why do I feel just as empty
as I did
before?

Little betta fish,
swimming around in its aquarium.
I peer into the
depths. Lose myself.

I listlessly observe her for hours,
watching her beautiful fins flare.
She remains unbothered,
going about her usual business.

As I am locked in my room,
and she is locked in hers,
I consider her as my best friend.
We’ve spent a lot of time together.

I wish I could
touch her or talk to her
and tell her how much I appreciate her presence,
but I don’t think she would understand.

Although we stare at each other for hours
through the glass panes separating our two worlds
of air and water,
I feel lonely.

I’m terrified for the day
when my only friend
lies belly-up on the water surface.
Will the loneliness drown me too?

content warning: sexism, racism, homophobia, ableist slurs, ****** assault, alt-right political commentary, abuse, prostitution

The okra stalks
now wilted
bend beneath
the winds of America’s plains.

As I’ve occupied myself with
a Yankee college’s schoolwork,
my means of feeding myself diminish
as I don’t have the time or energy to

water,
**** the bad bugs,
retie the plants to their rightful stalks,
and finally clean myself off.

Although my family qualifies for “government handouts”
as my momma calls them,
she sends it back every time.
The price?

Hunger gnawing at my stomach,
basic needs left unmet,
my “liberal” professors failing to grasp
what their own students face.

But women don’t deserve an actual education,
because in America’s Bible Belt
the woman’s future is confined
to a Southern home full of sweat and pregnancies.

I can always tell when my momma
runs a deficit on bills.
I can hear it,
although I try not to—

“Thank you for the tip, honey.”
She drawls,
and I know her bedroom door
is locked.

Before I knew what she was doing
when I was too young to know—
I caught glimpses of the different men
as they’d leave.

I don’t know why,
but I hated them all.
One would smoke cigarettes on the porch,
and later I’d kick around the used butts.

Now that she’s older,
she has resulted to
pimping me and my little sister out
against our will—

whether she intended for it to happen or not.
I’ve come to understand that
at least in America’s South,
virginity doesn’t exist.

A woman’s only purity
lies within having the right skin color;
some STDs can be overlooked
as long as they can still populate the Southern landscapes.

For the first time I had seen my momma
in over two weeks,
I greet her with a happy smile while washing dishes.
Her look of disgust remains unchanged.

“You need to register to vote!”
She says, yet I don’t have my driver’s license.
I remain silent.
I can hear the political commentary over the radio:

“String ‘em up,
shoot ‘em down!
Stop being so autistic,
and abide by the Party doctrine!”

Being in the South,
I know what the Southern gentleman meant
over the radio,
yet I still find its charged language alarming.

String ‘em up: Hang the Yankee professors who help me
Shoot ‘em down: Put down the “rioters” and “looters”
Autism refers to following rules of governance,
and the Party…

When my little sister registered
as a lesbian liberal,
momma never raised that much Hell.
She went off with a man for a few days to cool off.

I remember crying,
kneeling before my nativity set and the cross in my room,
hands clasped in prayer,
begging God to inform me on what to do.

I’ve tried to be a good Southern girl my whole life,
despite not being white,
being born into a single parent household,
and living in poverty.

I tried to be educated as a means of providing for my family.
However, my grandma tells me that’s unnatural.
My momma tells me to stop being stuck in my books
and to get some fresh Southern air.

I am left to ask, pleading for God to tell me
as humanity itself has failed to help me:
How can I be redeemed
from the sin of being born?

tw: mentionings of ****** assault, allusion to suicide, racism, abuse, sexism

“I’m starving,”
mom says,
the empty void of the refrigerator
reflecting the state of her consciousness.

Little sister
clutches at her stomach,
as if willing her hunger away
would make it disappear.

I’ve made fine food,
yet their tongues
still decry their
miserable states of hunger.

Aren't men supposed to provide
the food,
a house,
and authority?

Aren’t women supposed to provide
the meals,
a home,
and emotionality?

My dad solely remains as DNA,
threatening to make me into
an alcoholic like him
if I don’t behave.

My mom’s boyfriend
rules over us women
with cruel dominion,
making us wish we never had feelings

since we just
feel
so
violated.

His Irish tongue has the scrutiny of
the White Man’s burden
over us colored women,
his cruelty unmatched from the state of war.

When he pulls on my hair,
incessantly demanding my attention,
I remember how
he

ruined my mom’s body
after surgery,
tearing her flesh apart freshly stitched together,
and digs in, blood seeping the bedsheets.

I was just
trying to study.
Trying to further my education
of escaping from this Hell

The Hell he threatens me with
doesn’t seem so scary
when I know
the Price:

being a part of his sick fantasy
of having a harem of mother and daughters
tortured and maimed by his hand,
and our cries only met with his wails.

He already has my mother
sewn into his
game of
escaping Hell.

She acts as his demon sometimes
out of fear,
reprimanding me for
daring to keep my door shut

for daring to
not scream,
keep my thighs together
for him.

My tongue strikes
as my only act of defense
in an effort not against him,
but against a betrayal of self.

I am hungry,
in constant fear and panic,
and am knowledgeable of both how his game functions
and my inability to escape it.

Tell me,
how could Hell
be any worse
than this?

As a *****
made by his hand,
I acknowledge that
my only way to Heaven:

My Escape
lies in sacrifice.
As an ultimate display of familial piety
to my mother and sister.

I take a kitchen knife,
pouring some rice onto a plate,
before stabbing my stomach with the blade,
watching as my flesh falls onto the steaming plate.

Now,
I admit with relief,
I will go to Heaven,
and I will not hear them go hungry!

I declare in pure elation,
feeling my consciousness
previously weighed down by the burdens of a woman
finally flying free from my twisted body.

I watch
from the clouds of Heaven,
having made my sacrifice,
and see

flies collecting
over my body;
the plate is untouched.
My halo wavers atop my head.

“Please,” I whisper.
“Don’t let my sacrifice be
for nothing.”
Sister has yet to leave her room.

I recall
feeling terrified myself
when I was within the confines of mortality.
Mom is—

I see her.
She’s eating.
All this time—
she was lying?

The clouds fall from beneath me,
and my wings are plucked,
causing me to experience a pain
that rivals the first time he tried me.

I come back to life
to witness firsthand
him, with a pig-like glint in his eyes,
gouging on the meal I had prepared.

My stomach
now sliding down his esophagus
reels with hatred.
On the brink of life and death once more,

my vision flickers.
I catch glimpses of
the devil’s horns
through his ***** blond hair.

In my final moments,
I am left to ask:
Did Earth ever really exist
in the first place?

warning: mentioning of suicide

This apology
is long overdue,
but I’ve been meaning to say
I’m sorry.

I’ll never forget
when you were sitting next to me.
Mom was in the room too
and you were browsing on your phone

with a smile on your face
until
your
world

shatters.
Panic.
You panic,
and I don’t understand.

Mom’s attention is still on the television
as you begin to cry.
“What’s wrong?” I ask,
but my harsh tone seemed more like a demand.

“Evan!”
You scream,
and it finally catches mom’s attention.
“Evan’s in the hospital!”

“*****,” I begin,
feeling powerless
at the sight of
your bright red face.

I can’t stand
seeing you cry.
I am curious to know
why—

“He’ll be fine.”
Mom intervenes,
voice gentle
despite the sharp underlying tone

most single parents have
when addressing
their crying child.
“Do they know what happened?”

“No,” you respond,
and you’re now finding it
difficult
to breathe.

I look to mom for guidance
as I want her to know
that it’ll be okay.
“It can’t be that serious.”

Your phone pings.
I’ll never forget
how the color
drained from your face,

jaw slack in horror.
It takes your body a second
as the shock runs through the nerves in your body,
and you sob into your palms.

“What?!” Mom screams.
We both jump.
You reply,
voice hardly above a whisper,

“H-he tried to…”
Your voice falls lower.
“He tried to—“
Mom’s visage softens.

“Honey,” she says, holding her arms out
for a hug.
“Now, what happened
with your little friend?”

With your lips muffled against her shoulder,
you reply,
“He tried to **** himself.”
Your whole body quivers with sobs.

I remain
seated
in the same place,
ignoring the tears running down my cheeks.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, *****.”
Mom joins in.
“Yes honey, he’s young.
He’ll come back.”

It takes a while to convince you,
but then you finally come to.
I remember smiling and thinking,
Yeah, he’ll get better later.

__
“You were wrong!”
You scream at me
nearly a week later
one morning.

I jump,
unaware of what happened.
I’m surprised,
seeing you so upset.

“What did I do?!”
I shout, confused
as I hold up my hands
to mask my face from you.

“You. Lied!”
You shout, sobbing into your palms
wearing your childhood nightgown
printed with purple stripes, now faded after so many washes.

“*****?”
I ask,
and I reach my arms
out for a hug.

You slap my wrists away,
glaring at me
through the tears
in your eyes.

Stunned, I pause,
and you respond,
“They took him off life support today!
You lied!"

I tried to apologize then,
and it took a few tries
until you said you accepted them.
However, apologies will never make it the same.

cw: ****** assault, assault, abuse, slurs, chronic pain

It began with
you doing his laundry,
shouting back at him,
“Not an ounce of romanticism!”

Swears follow after
beneath your breath.
I stand
in the same hallway

watching your shadow
stretch through the doorframe
of the laundry room,
water gushing from the machine

into a
cacophonous
roar.
I wait,

but I remain
unnoticed
as you turn, legs bare,
and go into the bedroom.

I return to my own bedroom,
separated by the
war zones of the
empty pantry and cluttered den—

unpaid bills lay
strewn around,
the stuff he brought in from
when he first ruined our lives

sitting,
watching,
collecting
dust.

Lottery tickets
with their surfaces scratched away
and forgotten, just like
your dreamscapes.

I pause,
thirsty.
I dare to
step outside,

but I stop
when I hear your moans.
I’ve had enough experience to
after a few seconds

deduce if
the moans
are from
forced *** or chronic pain.

He laughs.
It’s the former this time.
I pause,
shaking.

Does it not
infuriate you
like how it does
to me?

You’re my mother,
and I’m your daughter.
He’s your boyfriend,
and he’s both of our assaulters, abusers.

When you first asked me
if I was okay with you
finding me a “new dad,”
you never asked me if it was okay if he

It’s just been
“One more month,
one more month,”
for years.

I’m so tired of your
performative screams
because we both know from experience
if you don’t scream well enough,

he’ll
beat you
and seek me
instead.

People from outside
said you're supposed to teach me
to be a woman
instead of a ****.

But I am instead
left alone,
asking,
"Does my mom still love me?"

What a romantic play you've put on--
to manage to fool
those who love you the most
certainly isn't easy.

Hungry for something
I have never seen before,
my eager eyes scour
pages of books.

Opening several books,
I marvel at the lives and stories
of true artisans of their time:
Xiao Hong, Joy Harjo, and William Faulkner.

I stare at each page,
trying to digest
every word
and imitate their style;

however, my mind draws blank
the moment the blank document
reflects back into
my empty mind.

Suddenly
intrusive thoughts rise
to the forefront of
my consciousness.

“How dare you think
you could ever become
a hero like them
without a single reader?”

I finally surmise that
I’m not a poet,
artist, or
author.

I don’t have the
soulless apartment flat
in the middle of a bustling city,
finding muse in every corner of life.

Nor do I have the freedom
to explore outside’s
blank landscapes
as there’s a spike of missing women reports here.

Instead,
I live in my empty childhood home,
bedroom walls plastered with heroes from video games
as I hide away from my mom’s boyfriend.

Afraid of both the outside and inside world,
I remain still.
I am no writer.
I am no hero.

Despite suffering from illness,
****** assault from a once trusted individual,
being told I do not belong in my own country,
and shoved away by supposed peers and professor at my institution,

I remain.
As steadfast as ever,
protecting my place, country, and
family.

No matter how exhausted
or how shattered my current frame of reality may be,
I never cheat on my schoolwork or exams
like the same peers who belittle me.

Me, who is there:
patiently waiting,
always the last,
seeking help after another misstep;

Nonetheless,
diligently remaining on track,
amidst the others descended from the Esteemed,
Who continue the cyclic tradition of oppression.

While I acknowledge that
the absence of refuge
for the trodden
has existed for many centuries,

and even myself as of now,
I understand it to be ill-gotten privilege
I may have stolen
from another applicant more promising than me;

I remain in
This Place
amongst books
and the International Royalty.

Beginning from
such atrocities
in both blood, home, and later within the educational institution,
I never had any interest in making a name for myself.

I did not apply to college because I was told to—
it is because I was predominantly told the opposite.
Facing the shouting and dismissals
from those closest in blood and esteemed teachers at school.

In this time of a loosening socioeconomic hierarchy,
finally exposing the Freedoms of this Nation
Our Ancestors could never dream of,
We Must Remain, Learn, and Fight!

Revel in how
Unfulfilled we are,
Remain Loyal to your well-established Ideals,
and Fight!

In a world where
the value of life varies:

the inherent
priceless value of life

is snuffed in a single moment
or growing dim over the passage of illness;

taken by the individual
or someone else,

flickers away as if there was nothing there in the first place—
How do you remain standing?

Women dress like birds,
prim and proper,
ranging from
bell shape to slender.

There can be
blush on their cheeks or
soft and vibrant feathers, yet
all their hollow bones are easy to break.

They are raised in the wild,
learning to defend themselves
from both natural and manmade threats
until the pretty women are inevitably caught.

She can’t escape.
You coo, “Struggle harder, you ugly thing.”
She bites your fingers through the net, so
you toss her smaller frame against the ground.

“Women,” you scoff, deducing she must be on her period.
You know in your mind that she’s special.
She’s an exotic breed currently popular on the market.
As a local man, you’re eager to **** out your culture.

Once she is shipped to the underground,
she bounces from owner to owner,
her once vibrant plumage
now grimy.

Once, she catches a glimpse of her daughters,
and they make eye contact, yet they remain
silent
to her call.

She realizes
she doesn’t smell of herself anymore
or where she comes from—
only of the dogs that made her bleed.

Her daughters
wish their mother would apologize
for bringing them into a world where
the woman is contained by men.

However,
did their mother ever
do anything wrong?
The daughters were simply a task.

“Time to move on.”
The mother surmises,
locking away her feelings as
her next shift begins.

You stand
outside of the cage
peering between the bars with your dark eyes.
“She’s too old for me to enjoy now.”

You sigh,
casting a glance to her daughters.
“I’ll feed her to my snake.
These two girls must be fertile by now.”

cw: abuse

I dared to leave my bedroom
because today was your birthday.

Despite him saying it to you last night as he...
I wanted to be the first one this year who wished you happy birthday.

I heard you while I was standing in the hallway.
He told you I was there, but you still said:

“Just get me a
bright red thong.”

Why did you say that?
Why do you let him stay?

He left today just like any other
despite it being your birthday.

I’m tired of playing ignorant
and avoiding the topic in conversation

of making you food
that instead ends up in his mouth

of him feigning a crippling injury
while the drug-resistant infection consumes you

of him groaning in pain from those same “injuries”
while he beats us for writhing in pain from our own chronic illnesses

I realized
when he ordered pizza for himself last night:

He wants
the

food and girls
fresh

just like the
bright red birthday thong between your legs.

Your birthday is just
another excuse for him.

cw: domestic abuse

Despite being a girl,
I’ve always liked
video games
with the

bright colors,
challenges,
stories, and
heroes.

I used to prefer books
as I had more imaginary freedom
over the characters and scenery
until I learned my mom was screaming for him to stop.

But really,
the sound effects in video games
are amazing.
I feel like I’m my character!

Moreover, the music
for this game
makes me feel like
I really can save the world.

If I can save
their world,
then why can’t I
save ours?

I’ll study well,
make a vaccine,
save endangered wildlife from extinction,
solve world hunger.

I want to be a nameless hero
just like my favorite characters
who do it simply out of responsibility
instead of fame or fortune.

If I just
leave
my bedroom…
Can I really do anything

if I can’t even
save
my mom
from one man?

"Save the galaxy by…"
My character chimes.
No!
I’ll do it this time.

I’m done being a little kid.
I’ll save her.
But
how?

No book
video game
or class
has taught me how to save my mom.

The feelings
are returning now.
Dread, agony, and disgust materializes
as I recognize my face in the mirror.

Silence.
There is no character theme
if I disregard the sound of my mom crying.
Instead, I observe the boring figure in the mirror with no sharp angles or colors.

He left when I was deep within the pool of self-loathing,
claiming he’d get himself something to eat
as us women haven’t prepared food for weeks,
shelves bare.

When I leave my room for the first time in days,
my mom greets me with a smile,
pretending like she wasn’t just crying.
“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sweetheart,” she says, voice wavering.
I can smell him on her.
“Do you mind making him food to eat?”
“No.” I reply as I peer into the empty cupboards.

cw: ****** assault and suicidal thoughts

I want to combust.
Not into the traditionally red flames.
Red is my mother’s color; because, it’s
the one that suits her the best.

But the reason why I hate it, is that in a deeper shade,
it is the same color that runs between her thighs
and stains the bedsheets we clean
when men decide that they’re more worthy.

I want my flames to be purple,
the same shade I have been fixed on since I was little.
Purple like the heroine I always dreamed of becoming,
and the edges of my vision when I

swallow the cleaning products,
count out the pills,
pull the belt tight around my neck,
grow so furious with myself that I wish I was just dead.

When I told my mother I wanted to die,
she screamed at me,
“How dare you think you’ve gone through so much,
when I’ve gone through so much worse!”

That is why
I want to explode
into flames
that dare to justify my own right to pain.

But purple is the same color
I see around my little sister’s face,
concern in her gaze
as she whispers, “I love you."

How could the world be so cruel?
Locking a man in our home,
a man who tries to take away every piece that makes us whole,
and forcing my little sister to witness me in such a state.

I can’t live up to being a
college student
daughter
big sister,

yet
I can’t bear forcing my little sister
to witness her big sister
lifeless in the room next to hers.

When I go out,
I want to combust into purple flames
because I’m so
terrified, furious, disappointed.

Unlike the men who built the college,
I want to die
without a trace,
and my ashes to disappear.

I guess
nothing would change after I die,
except there would be more
purple little bruises on my sister’s heart.

But would I become
greedy, disgusting, memorable
because I would
leave her?

Leave her like our father
who forgot our birthdays
or when it was his time for child custody,
but could never forget his favorite beer?

When my mother’s boyfriend tries to break into my room at night,
I beg the flames to take me.
I’m too tired, hungry, and weak
to believe I have a right to my own body anymore.

“Traitors,” I whisper to the flames,
hoping my emotions would be strong enough
to ignite myself
and disappear.

But the following morning,
my little sister would knock at my bedroom door,
greeting me with a sleepy smile,
and sitting on my bed to chat.

How could the world be so cruel
to my little sister by making me,
the girl who can’t even protect herself,
her protector?

“I missed you.”
She says, and I can’t help but laugh.
“I just saw you before you went to sleep.”
I reply.

Suddenly
the purple flames that I once called traitors
remind me they were with me the whole time,
burning resiliently.