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Generasian fucked up my poem so I'm posting it here. Apparently I don't like writing "short" poems. This is probably T.S. Eliot's fault. Or maybe Richard Siken. I can't tell.


growing taller with the knowledge that half my family
                                      had wished for my death
                                                     made me question the reflection in the mirror
             after all              how does one fade               when you                never existed

my mother worked in an abortion clinic and now toils her days away in an ob/gyn sector
                   she grew so tired of aborting so many female fetuses that she yearned to wash
                                            the red from her heart through a bloody child cradled in her arms

thick dusty curtains hid my huddled niche from the world
         overhearing people laugh over my grandmother's hope for my abortion
                        due to which sperm pierced the egg first and how i was not a male child
                                    so i wore snapbacks and loose sturdy blues kept my hair short and view more
narrow
                gleaning used scooters to rest my worn out sneakered feet
                                            tears digging a path to the misery contained within my mouth
         i had been young and unwanted, but thought i would be able to change the world
               i shall be the first girl to be a man
                                                                     i thought delightedly in my head
                                                                                                                          i shall do it all

                                                          the united states is a tear-stained mattress of impossible promises
                    never broken since they were never truly given
   homeland and motherland are familiar as air                                               all connected by loss
they are war just as you are            you are genocide          you are holocaust            you are the past
                                                                                              what is your ending
                 my mother had a plan toward freedom
                                                                                       she would give up
                                                                                                                                 her life
                                                                          for mine
unable to care for me
                        my family shipped me back to my motherland so i sat at the sharp edge of a plastic tub
                                                                     drowning for air
                                                                                     for recognition
                               choking upon the struggle for life

please cut
                  into the tender flesh of my breast and remove the fat so i can be more human
                                 when a boy in my class stumbled and bled red
                                                                     i stumbled and expected myself to bleed blue


my mother held remorse through her body and clung on to
             birth as she cried out with pain
                          waiting for the delivery of her child
                                             whose screams came
                                                                                                                   to a cacophony of
                                                                                                       silence

               history bleeds down my thighs
                           crawls between my legs when i curl over into positions of pain
                           this war is a self-massacre where
                                             the risk of asking for love just outweighs the fear of being unloved
i was given life to lift both feet off the ground and hang from unfeathered wings tied
around
                                                                                                                          my neck


                                                                                                      a celebration of life
                                                                                                                   and so when i was born into
                                                                                                      a coffin
                                                                                                      i cried out
                                     with the burden of grief.

I'm procrastinating again. I have a Cultures and Contexts: A/P/A Studies final on Tuesday and an Odyssey map to add photos in. I'm not sure what to do about that part at all.

I don't want to do anything~