By Stephanie He
Stephanie will graduate from Emory College of Arts and Sciences and Goizueta School of Business in 2027. She is double majoring in Business Administration – Film and Media Management and Creative Writing. She is a dancer and a poet.
yellow skin, words
I never understood how our same
rice-colored skin, ebonied hair, the same
language learned from our mother’s mother’s mother
can still hold prejudice
so fluid it flows in the blood
your smirk and armpit stains glare
heat like the sun my eyes look at the gum stuck in your teeth
your daughter, you drawl and I know
jagged embarrassment from two worlds.
how can someone Chinese be so bad at
Chinese, which I say in broken sentences
mixed with another language my parents barely know/
i am an ugly, white, bespeckled fish in a pond of red
my teeth don’t listen
they twist my intentions when I am brought to
a pond of rainbow—and I try to fit in but
colorless is what I am born to be
fighting your expressive jargon with my caged mellow
the words I say come out wrong
-ly interpreted
because how can someone, yellow like my skin,
not need help—kind, razor-sharp words they
rake my skin of the freedom to end my own sentences.
I become a (wo-)man
i used to keep my father’s rifle
hidden deep within my closet
among the mildew of disturbing thoughts
and the decay of catastrophes
the abrupt conversations
with its abrupt ends
i remember how i killed my mother; dragged and
drowned her in the waterfall’s rivulets
of her Naivete
a baby bird: You bought it for her when she asked
silver vines circling intricate bars
an angel: head bejeweled
red like the blood that blossomed
when rust hits flesh
when i fire the Shot
you didn’t clip its wings
why, i say, and You smile
the kind of zookeeper smile i learn
when it manages an escape, it will learn to still come back, you reply
nodding, but not accepting is all I know
but soon, orders come out of my mouth
like bullets
i am becoming my father. A man—!
my voice boasts of my strength
and my stride is prouder than any woman – —!
“shut the lights.”
i dream about bells and windchimes
my coffin as it’s lowered
hammering my body six feet below
here lies baby xxx
i teeter down the dark streets
and grow in twilight
the scent of rosemary and thyme floats
like a leaf in the laps
cake baking in the oven
it smells Squeak-y clean—when suddenly
a silhouette grazes my vision
and then i’m running to catch a ghost
the bags of guilt patched from her quilt weighs me down
like a thousand feathers
i struggle against her bent warmth; so suffocating—!
the rifle is in my hands again
i walk back to the dark dry soil and sit
leaning on my tombstone
it’s bone-shatteringly cold
but I think it’s best if I left
so, I lower myself below the world I know—
wild Mornings!
wild Mournings—
i spend with my head
the wooden thought of life like
caked shoes and candles
when I dance naked in the Rain—
no umbrella of hers over my head;
freedom. freedom?
tell me when I will sleep
—the bird gives but a chirp
the Alarm screams
Homesickness
Home
sick of your endless torrent of words
Brushing against my scalp stinging
Like anesthesia protecting me from your
Outside world where i am too afraid to
Venture because of the shelter that is
Home
Sick of days being nights black white gray
My world is out of focus warped blurred
take my hand and spin me around in your
love Like a carnival ride I don’t ever want to
leave the excitement that comes from the
Expense of security, solace in the bricks of
Home
sick of how the words hatred and love are tossed around
I am unaccustomed to such verbal confrontation so i glitch and say the same
Raked raw words back and watch
knowing i may be hurting you over again
or we could both be playing the victim in our
Make-belief
Home
Sick of how you try to find things to do with your hands they shake
As they move to clean the table
Make the food because that’s how you’ve always
Shown you cared/rough and sudden
Your actions and your words they peel me apart again but i think i am happy not
Home
Sick of the tears despite all that we’ve been
through arguments screaming thrashing
They still yearn of your embrace
That crushing of your fingers that squeeze
My ribcage against yours and i notice
How you’ve grown small and powerless
Caged and anxious
i am momentarily surprised because
You seem like you’re
Clinging to me like i’m your
Home/
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