I am tired of talking about holes and whoever’s gonna fill them
A Lit Match to Burn What Your Country Doesn’t Remember
i try to pluck my cô dì chú bác from / their endless dreams. their breaths, / smelled of newly-damned artilleries, /
their mouths, stained with tiết canh red-bright.
The only life in sight: the “E” flashing in the exit sign a few feet above my eye line.
we will take and take until there is no more
and then what?
the world is a
symphony & I only see birds,
how to bleed a ghost
the problem with bodies is that they’re just too fragile. even something as bold as a ribcage can be crushed into tiny stars, bones magnified into gritty ash.
collecting words in attempt to keep them the same
to be a daughter and make her a wish or
to be a daughter and make her a weapon