Ogress
April, and already the spectre
of wet between my thighs, the promise
of chafing. I dab myself with baby powder
and think of the soft of my mother’s arms,
how I wasn’t allowed an extra bowl of rice
after I couldn’t fit into her secondhand shirt—
my stomach spilling out the seams. Eighth grade
and I was already destined to be lonely,
growing up in a forest of perfect Chinese legs,
more perfect Chinese daughters. Years later
and I’m still thinking of the girls at swim class:
scimitars of shoulder blades, right angles
where limb met body. After Jenna scrawled ogress
across my textbook, I sucked my stomach in
until I passed out trying to fold myself
into my body, any body. Embarrassed,
I told people I had a fainting disease.
Sometimes, I hold my breath in the bath
and imagine myself beautiful—green
mottling my skin, fangs unknotting my teeth.
I touch my brutish face in the mirror:
all of it aching, heavy. All of it me.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026