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POETRY
Ana Chen, Grace Zhang, Linda Liu

lyre

Ana Chen


so that as a girl scabbed into woman i
know how to make good intentions out of everything but myself. 


& i want her lithe, listen carefully, lithe, & i want her
to bubble against glass, palms swollen like the bellies of fish, & i want her
to cradle coldness, to cradle the empty, to cradle red green yellow, to cradle her own 

skin cold to the touch


so that as rain furs down on cement,  black shines an impossibility, skin a ground not ground. sacrilege
to maw the ones who walk upon you, to melt your ridges into pores.


nursery schemes, fecal stains rotting beneath the door. i want her to be the two hands
up the blue lament of her skirt, to be knees ripped open upon a wreathe of women who
consume every woman before themselves


when does a bosom become spillage? a nipple rebellion? to mop
up this oil-scintillate ruin before the men can see, to tip it bubbling back
into a skin & where


is the best point of entry?


no i am not talking to you


the eye as traitor, the lip as guerilla: guerilla tongues words flesh. as a girl broken into woman i
can only chart the trash that refuses to rot, the time stamps & mascara wands like
so many cilia, the


shredded pads menstruation, constellation gore. the husks of eyeliner, phone case grease
gauzing champagne, furtive overanalysts. 


choose: her body to ___


  1. burst kneel crave

  2. carve roam saw

  3. thirst peel flay

  4. starve foam crawl


&


i wanted her to be more golden than her shackles more scarlet than the blood she washes so furtively off her sheets. i wanted 


wanted


her to drown what she could not be, i wanted her tribute, i wanted her
vessel & vassel, i wanted her infection swallow breath, stuffed to collapse with

all the women who came before, 


& still the window is shattered & still the rain is sharp sharpest & still
this glass is teething, & still she


& still she & still she & still she & still she


is gone.



Grace Zhang
today i am no longer scared
because even though the days are exhausting, sometimes
and the nights are more uncertain
i have still gotten up again, and again
over a thousand times, 
throughout these years
and i know i have the power to get up again--
a thousand more times
and then a thousand more, until the day 
i no longer doubt my will to live

though the sadness has never truly faded
and on some days, i still question my violent desire to remain living
i trace the faded patchwork of scars on my arms
and i remind myself that this is who i am
and it is ok if i am not perfect 
and i think that my scars are beautiful and strong
like a tiger that has earned its stripes

i am seventeen years old
and even though i don't know if i'll ever be ok, 
or better, in the traditional sense of the word
i am learning to love myself, broken bits and all

and for now, it is enough.

Permission to let go
Linda Liu
​
You laugh when I tell you: I get scared at night 

But mother, the child who cowers from darkness is dead 
Seduced by the monsters under my bed—or as you would say—in my head 
And I giggled when they took her limbs apart— 
Or was I supposed to cry? 
I do not lie, she gave her deepest thanks, she 
kissed him with all her might 
She freed herself 
from this graveyard barred with rotten teeth, shackles 
digging into flesh, bruises 
suffocated by silence—here, where limp bodies feed on broken nails
ripped from fingertips, here— 
where we screamed with no voice. 
So please—hear me when I say: I’m scared of sleeping 
Even if it isn’t sleep that haunts me, I’m scared of waking. 
Sixty feet below the surface submerged—what is there to see but
shadows in light, dust in flames and— 
death, in life 
My dearest mother, will you listen to my heartbeat? 
Hear the empty frailness of such languishing sounds— 
Bones too hollow to carry these iron chains of 
unfinished dreams—my lips peel in dread from counting sheep 
and—layer by layer it reveals—the heart of an onion. 
My tongue is a sponge for the poison in her tears, swollen numb 
I pray for you to notice these wounds 
to look at this body and—what remains of a half-drained shell 
I cannot open these eyes to the morning shine, to the luster of sun, 
to the brilliance of a life that I no longer know how to live--
the rays burning my skin—scorching what belongs underground 
—buried—by sinful thoughts, unnatural to the eye— 
Mother, I cannot live up to that glow 
of expectations so bright, it 
turns me into a vampire, caged 
by the unwritten, unspeakable duties
of life. 
So please--
Editor's Statement
Stories
Arts
Issue#10 - Hollow
Copyright © 2020 by It's Real Magazine. ​All Rights Reserved.
ISSN 2688-8335, United States Library of Congress.
publ. Bellevue, Washington.
​
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