a dragonfly skims across a surface, and the entire lake creases
underneath its weight. we are tucked within overgrown reeds
that prick my ankles raw. it’s dusk. the mosquitos are emerging
to gnaw. you scratch at the red welts lined along your arm with a
ferocity no one can explain. “stop that,” I scold. I snatch your hand
into my own, examine your blood-crusted cuticles. I take a tissue
from my pocket and wipe the residue away. “you’ll make it worse.”
every time, and my words never get through. you, ruined girl: nails
sharp enough to slit. skin of ivory fissures / eyes of bruising flax.
you shrug, turn back to watch the sky. before us, the egg yolk moon
hangs so low, we can pluck it from its perch and swallow it whole.
it’s dusk, still. it’s always dusk here. the cicadas are beginning
to sing. you confess that you are being eaten alive, and I think I am
being eaten alive, too. tongue first, then mind. do you remember? age ten
we crafted matching glass bead bracelets. you flung yours upwards
and it shattered against the sky. I think that day, the sky split too. one day,
I fear you will gather the leftover glass / sky shards and file yourself
hollow. but for now, there is a crevice in the clouds where twilight
may filter through, light cradling the cusp of your jaw / kissing
the slope of your nose in a language I wish I could speak to you.
Lia Wang loves stories so much, she decided to create her own. She is the Director of Chapters for The Young Writers Initiative, and her pieces have been recognized by Scholastic Art & Writing, Ice Lolly, JUST POETRY!!!, among others. When not starting another draft, Lia can be found tracing shapes into the clouds. Find her at https://liawangwrites.carrd.