i wake up
i swallow solitude for breakfast i drink news to wash it down,
i choke on red horrors watch them fuse with spiderwebs of my saliva.
can’t just toss and turn on barren sheets so i turn on the TV,
can’t blind myself with blueish phantasms but i’ll be damned if i stop trying.
take-out at half past three AM that or microwaved instant noodles,
take names and now i’m no one except on that week-old grocery receipt.
the rooms are so empty here like heads truncated by the collarbone,
the glossy femurs have hollow marrow suck it gently like a baby.
void swallow me
void lacuna abyss e.g. the gap between my teeth the pore within my daymare,
void of meaning just the flat aftersound of my singing then the screaming in the shower.
anymore of this i will shave my eyes off to stave this pain off,
anymore and i’ll learn to slurp up kimchi while the streets flood with bodies.
please someone hold me i need human touch tongue on cobalt bruises and eye-bags,
please don’t numb i need visceral singeing alight something solid to cling onto.
help is too late for the nameless somehow news only broadcasts the famous,
help this terror from the screen under the bed in my slit lips throat hoarse from pleading.
me trying to not plunge into the white crevasse between channel seven and three,
me closing my eyes to not see eidolon grandma’s hands spooning me soup feverishly chanting
my name my name my name
Emilie Guan grew up in Pittsburgh (PA) and now lives in Shanghai as a frazzled high-school student. She’s prone to getting too emotional over fictional stories. If she’s not multitasking while listening to The 1975, she’s probably wishing she could stay awake a little longer in her dreams.