by Lia Zheng, Canyon Crest Academy '23

she sits with her back straight, legs glued together, black hair in braids, eyes focused downward (never wandering). her breathing is even, syncopated with the second hand of the clock. 

​

tick, inhale, tick, exhale. 

​

quiet, of course, as to not disrupt the room or draw attention to herself. 

​

blinding supernovas leave endless streaks along 

a dark void that stretches far beyond the bounds of the 

observable world, any movement in space 

undetectable to human senses— 

sound dissipates in a vacuum, 

light fails to reach the eye, 

smell doesn’t exist with nylon and spandex 

drawing the line between life and death 

​

ignorance stakes its hold like the 

first flag on a new planet 

conversations hidden— 

moonlight in a lunar eclipse, 

or alien life in attempts to unearth 

the secrets of the known universe 

shame obscures the truth 

buried below an impenetrable, rocky surface 

where no one has touched or seen 

surrounded by impossible futures 

​

conditioning is an ability of the human 

body, mind, soul—a fundamental need for exploring 

the unknown. to do so, we learn to 

fear: dirty smudges on a shiny surface, 

          for they are signs of danger and despair 

fabricate: images of an ideal reality, 

          for manifesting is the first step to existence 

face: new worlds created, 

          for forward is the only authorized direction

because that’s what they want to see—that’s how it's supposed to be: a crescent smile plastered on her lips (not too exuberant, for that would be unladylike), conforming nods, compliance in all spheres except those where free will diverges from fate. their unpolished slab of stone to chip away into a masterpiece, which will reach to the far ends of (t)he(i)r dreams and beyond. along the way, she will not question, she will not complain, she will not refuse. 

​

she will forever remain: 

          a yes child to her parents 

          a yes wife to her husband 

          a yes mother to her son 

​

and should she have an issue, a stumble, a mishap—she should confide in (only) them, and they will fix it (by their law, never hers)— 

​

they always will. 

​

anxiety tugs on my hair like a child 

her palm cold and sweaty 

clinging to my leg and refusing to let go 

body adding weight to mine— 

the boulder to sisyphus, 

or the burden of which feels like 

two jupiters (and a mercury) 

crushing brittle bones 

ground into fine pebbles and dust 

orbiting 

                     saturn 

like a lost moon 

stuck in her gravitational pull 

stretching far across the 

coinciding planes of space and time 

​

so strong she is, having embedded her roots 

into the folds of my matter—fossilized 

blood and tears, crystalize the past into 

scintillating slivers of cassette tape 

rewinding, 

      rewinding, 

             re-wind-ing

entropy increases forward, 

but backward in a hall of mirrors 

judgment is an echo of the past 

inescapable without amnesia, 

the absence of thought, 

or a black hole’s singularity—in which one 

never 

       escapes 

​

and when she tries to speak, the words never come out, tucked under her diaphragm, supposedly forgotten in a few moments (supposedly, a fleeting burst of immaturity and impulsivity). 

​

so they assume.