Tag: poem

grandmother.

grandmother.

by christina ♥ 1 Comment

for my yin yin whom I miss dearly and have so many questions for.

i did not know you,
not in typical terms.

you were gone before
i even knew
what to
ask,

before I knew
mortality.

but i know you
in other ways.

in the ways your blood pumps
through my veins,
under skin

in the ways my feet
and hands
are always
cold

in the ways my father
remembers your cooking—
mixing what you knew with what you
hoped for

in the ways you’d watch us splash in the pool from the kitchen window,
live fish awaiting it’s fate in the sink,
wok heated almost as hot as the summer sun

in the ways i remember
your imperfect laughter,
squeezed together so tightly
into an armchair,
broken record player to our left,
dreams of seeing me grow up to your right.

how does a poem make up for
the years
I let myself
forget?

I don’t know if I
believe in
afterlife,
but if it means
the possibility of
knowing you
fully,
then I will believe
anything.

a month is not equality.

a month is not equality.

by christina ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

i don’t recall when i
stopped saying
“girl”.

all i know
is i am a
womxn now.

not because i feel it,
but because
it’s what they see.

they treat me,
tear me,
rearrange me
into “woman”.

–am sometimes
“bitch”,
sometimes
“girl”.

never
human
or whole.

am told that because i am
womxn,
i am
worth
less.

and still,
I am expected
to go high,
to hold my head up.

as if I wasn’t fed lies
called
“equality”.

look.

if we were so equal,
why are we still raped by
the same mouths
that say
we’re revered?

if we were so equal,
why are our bodies legislated
rather than
loved?

if we were so equal,
why are we forced
to smile politely
and take unwarranted advances
as compliments?

the pain and triumph
of womxn
cannot be fixed to 30 days,
a month.

only in the west
do we try and
celebrate our
oppression
away.

if this is the equality
you give me,
i will tell you
to take it back–
that i will
rearrange it
like you rearrange me

–turn womxn’s history
into her story,
my story,
our story.

solid(air)ity.

solid(air)ity.

by christina ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

empty promises
coat the surface,
smoke at the top of my
newsfeed

proof for your social media
that you care enough
to walk in
our shoes

i don’t want you
to put yourself
here.

i don’t want you walking
with me,
or talking
for me.

align yourself
with some other
ally.

i don’t want your
solidairity,
made from
nothing–
angry faces
on facebook posts.

when i give my people,
my pain,
my sacrifice,

walking in my shoes
does nothing
but trample on me
more.

take your “walk in her shoes” heels,
your op-eds,
your yellow-fucking-fever.

you made me sick,

and i’m still
recovering.

worlds.

worlds.

by christina ♥ 1 Comment

i imagine worlds
within worlds
where girls are whole;

where wood chips are the only things
that graze our knees
that scratch our skin
that break us open–
require us to become
bandaged.

where dizziness comes from spinning
in silly circles
eyes closed
mouths turned up,
smiles.

no hurt
no bottles
no smoke;
nothing we want to forget

i imagine a girl
in a world
who dreamed of love
and trust
and never questioned if she could be
whole again;

who never became disappointed
by how
human
it all is.

the love i know

the love i know

by christina ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

They say to write about what we know.

I know love.
I own love.
I give love.
So, “write about love,” I think.

The love I know is raw.

Unfiltered by rationale,
held together by imperfect people
who are okay with being imperfect
together.

The love I know is platonic.

A word that doesn’t do this love any sort of
justice,
because it always holds me together,
lifts me up,
is the love I take most for granted.

The love I know is familial.

Familiar.
The longest relationship I’ve ever known,
transcending bodies and time and borders.

The love I know is strength.

It echoes,
bounces off walls I try to contain them in.

The love I know is changing.

Quiet on some days
and loud on others;
whispers in gratitude and shouts out its joy.

The love I know is a love I haven’t found yet–
is waiting in a bookstore or a coffeeshop
or a computer screen.
is patient, because it’s what I lack.
is used to being put on hold,
because it knows I have a lot of love
already.

The love I know is our friendship,
one-worded hello’s,
and home–
is living a life I never planned for;
is life itself;
is me figuring it out
everyday
over and over again.

if we loved ourselves as much as we loved everyone else, maybe things would be better

if we loved ourselves as much as we loved everyone else, maybe things would be better

by christina ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

You are aching bones and stretching skin–
a combination of the rigid and flexible.
Your body is and was and continues to be
everything it needs to be.

And that is all you can ask of it.

Do not let your body know you are ever ashamed.
Do not be ashamed of how your body cares for your soul.

You are full
of life.
Your soul knows it.
Your body does too.
Sometimes our brains need catching up.
Be patient.

Because though you are bones, and skin, and brains,
you are also strength, and shelter, and resilience.

You are everything you always needed.
You just might not know it yet.

Read this until you do.

Tell yourself
until it stops becoming forced
and you know how loved your soul
and your brain
and your body is.

a new national anthem

a new national anthem

by christina ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

when anyone says, “immigrants built America”
I am reluctant to comment

Because “immigrant” implies choice
implies well-calculated decisions for better lives on greener pastures
implies we were not forced from homes, or enslaved, or lied to

It says our trails were made of everything but tears
states that we were always whole and not ¾
reminds me our railroads weren’t hammered by jade hearts
tells me we have no right to mourn or question or be anything but grateful

We don’t say that there were no more options
that poverty forced families to fragment
like disposable chopsticks my grandmother still never throws away

that our culture and history is diluted
disingenuous
categorically flawed by its very nature

because immigrants didn’t build this country
we stole it.

And made refugees,
and slaves,
and victims,
into citizens