posted a vent september 2024, made its way into the poem.
Old enough to buy myself a pack of Tsingtao Beer. It tastes exactly as I always imagined it. The smell,/. distinctly Chinese. I am recognized by my deadname. To revisit a revisit. But now I look like a man but talk as a girl. Or I look as a girl but talk like a man. Headstrong. Head filled with nicotine. Womb cradling a growing beer belly. I ask, is it better that I drink a beer each night now instead of hard liquor four days a week?
I spend more than 6 hours worth of wages on books. A whole day of picking up after other peoples' messes. A whole life? I like to cry in places where it doesn't matter: on the train home, a park bench, in front of my Mom. The most beautiful book I now own was put together by a white man. And is that more or less meaningful, then?
Embarassing. This bitch went to Chinatown today without a single bill of cash. The ATMs don't work: the check is still on hold. No mooncakes and no jade rabbit. I say, the sky's sons are the suns, and there's ten of them. You know? But apparently my Mom doesn't even know this story. So I can't know the accuracy of my retelling. Doesn't matter: it's already been told.
