Thunder

He was thunder personified.

His laugh roared

and his voice rumbled.

 

He would sing Frank Sinatra

as a lullaby.

 

He drenched himself

in cologne,

nostrils flared and people stared

as the lights went out

vision was unnecessary

in his tidal wave of scent.

 

It rained for five days

and when he went away,

a double rainbow appeared

as if one wasn’t enough.

Fading

Your lips touch my wrist

and leave a tingle trail

up to my lips.

Butterflies spring forth, pale

skin next to mine shifts

with each breath.

 

Angel kissed cheeks

seem to glow in the dark.

 

But his light burns brightest

when his anger shines

and burns, the slightest

tremor rides my spine.

 

With every word, I counter

with two.

With every scream, I answer

with mute.

 

The object of his ire

soon evaporates like water,

leaving him wordless. Tired.

Nothing conveys what really matters

better than a simple silence

after a hurricane.

Dim Sum

Weathered faces beam across the table

as steam rises from bamboo baskets

which hold the treasures of Ha Gao,

Ha Churn, and that weird gray stuff

that looks like cut up brains.

(It’s actually cow intestines.)

 

Tea spills over cups as liquor

rides a rush through myveins.

They laugh at the dropped food

from shaky chopsticks,

they laugh at the As

that should have been A plusses.

 

Peanuts dipped in sesame sauce

is redundant, like dipping my black curly hair

into my chinky eyes.

They are made of the same damn thing.

 

Full blooded cousins tell me I don’t belong,

I never have, with my lack of an accent,

my lack of demurring, my lack

my lack

my lack

my lack.

I’ll tell you what I fucking lack.

That “oh whatever you want to do,

is fine, honey” that springs

to their lips as soon as

confrontation hits.

 

That “I’m really good at math

but I can’t pronounce my R’s,

ha ha ha”

 

That hate for the mutts,

of those people who had the balls

to escape from the misogynistic culture

by marrying into another, slightly less

shitty culture.

 

That Asian culture,

where a man brings home the bacon

and the women tries everything

available to her to stay

stupid

and

pretty.

 

I’ll take my curly off jet black hair,

my big tits and my handful ass,

my lack of accent and lack of self-hate,

my light wood eyes…

I’ll stay pretty,

but I won’t be stupid.

Garbage

His glare is pronounced

under prominent brows.

They arch like cats

as they stretch their backs.

The hair on my neck points

towards Polaris.

 

What have I done,

that was so very wrong?

 

Cotton dyed plaid bunches

around flabby biceps

as he pictures bending and breaking

a neck, an arm, a leg, a finger.

Since the moment I was born,

disposable garbage.

 

But garbage can’t earn a diploma,

garbage can’t tell you you’re wrong,

garbage can’t have a mind of it’s own,

a will that doesn’t bend to your fists

or your words

or your hate.

 

But garbage can fight back,

can’t I, Daddy?

Self?

What am I?
Just a silly sad girl.
No matter how I try,
life slaps me and I swirl.

Just a silly sad girl
full of bruises and scrapes,
life slaps me and I swirl
into the open arms of an ape.

Full of bruises and scrapes,
I waltz like a twister
into the open arms of an ape.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”

I waltz like a twister,
holding you in no regard.
“You’re a piece of shit, sir.”
I am my own guard.

Holding you in no regard,
no matter how I try…
I am my own guard.
What am I?

Bruises

different colors

splash across the canvas

of his body.

 

Blue is surrounded by a greyish

tinge, circled by yellow

that spreads out until all

is the night sky.

 

Stars are cigarette burns.

The only gift he has from his mother.

 

They had seen him with bags

of garbage in his hand.

They must have mistaken

them for signs demanding freedom.

 

 

One,  pipe that weighs a ton.

Two, front teeth crunch under a shoe.

Three, they don’t see him bleed.

Four, their voices roar.

 

He curls into himself

maybe then they won’t see

how his lip bleeds from his teeth

sinking through the appendage,

just so he stays still,

and doesn’t matter.

Bundy

Some say my face was carved by god.

“Angelic, cherubic, handsome, captivating”

meant to do wonders of good,

just like his first creations should.

But, I am the morning star

and you are all forsaken.

 

Forsaken to this wretched wasteland

of over abundance and under appreciation.

You should feel your spine tingle

your neck crink, ill

thoughts of death and decay

when you hear my name.

Foolish women want to play MY game?

 

They will never know the numbers

of all the unmarked graves I’ve

desecrated again.

And again.

The angel has seen your hideous

and it is his right to exterminate

this blight of ugliness that diseased the whole world.

 

Humanity should kneel

and suck my greatness.

Choke on it

and the dirt that you belong in.

This isn’t YOUR world now,

its always been mine—

I just let you borrow it.

Sad Girl’s Love Song (Sylvia Plath Imitation)

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,

I lift swollen lids and nothing is right, again.

(I wish I made you up inside my head.)

 

The stars are marching in formation, blue and red,

And lovely blackness waltzes in,

I shut my eyes, and all the world drops dead.

 

I love how you bewitched me into bed,

And sung me awe-struck, kissed me back to sane.

(I wish I made you up inside my head.)

 

Seraphs fall from the sky, heaven’s light wanes.

Exodus of hateful foolish men.

I shut my eyes, and all the world drops, dead.

 

I know you’ll return, like you said.

I grow cold and whisper your name.

(I wish I made you up, inside my head.)

 

 

I couldn’t have loved any in your stead.

When spring comes, we’ll begin again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Oranges

My yellow, bruised rinds

are peeled and opened.

Displayed like a flower,

if one cares to look.

Past the bruises and crescent moons

of those who touched but didn’t care

to split me open, work me out.

Reveal the sweetness that was covered by tough skin

and a tangy stare.

 

Sweet fruit revealed to patience.

A taste that will never flee your mouth.

A scent that can drive you mad,

but only if you let it.

You mistook my bruises for rot.

They’re not.

They were made by people like you.

 

People who have learned to judge by feel.

Picking us up and holding us in the light.

Examining every flaw, picking you apart

just to see you shrivel

and shrink.

 

Don’t.

 

You are more than your exterior.

Beneath your bumpy skin, your cold shell,

lies the most addictive drug they haven’t learned

to taste yet.

It Starts like That

He stands by the counter,

coffee cascading into the mug

he holds with a white knuckled grip.

It starts small like that.

 

A drop rebels from the waterfall,

splashes up and over the lip of its predestined

pool, lands on the skin of his finger.

It starts quiet like that.

 

A hiss, the world has betrayed him,

symbolized by that insignificant little drop—

that insignificant little daughter.

It starts, insignificant, like that.

 

Turning, furious, pupils dilate

(fight! fight! never flight!)

the mug crashes against the wall.

It starts with a crash, like that.

 

He thunders like a stormcloud,

shrouding the room in bright white

rage. Stares at the brown splatter

he’s made.

The roaring dulls, then escalates to

a lion defending his territory.

Claws were never sheathed.

Hatred never veiled.

Fists tighten and smash into immovable objects.

He is an unstoppable force.

 

When will you learn?

It doesn’t start like that.

It just never

stopped.