Angelina Nguyen, Del Norte High School, graduating in '25 March 16, 2023
Artwork by Katelyn Zhang, Del Norte High School
Home
I falter in my faith, my home,
something allegedly “perennial”
For you my truest form of love
is bound by ancient blood
An immortal station, a
sickeningly anachronistic practice,
The edict that family
is law.
I bleed so maybe you
will open your eyes to my
cauterized wounds
unprepossessing impressions
the strokes of an intangible media
your words claim residence
in my mind
plastering my skin like a
branded animal.
I was conceived by
a dance of woman and man
nurtured in a
house of strangers
where palpable tension
etches itself into my flesh
reality slaughters me
and no blade is
finer than failure.
Away
I am an engineer when I am away.
Perhaps in my isolation
I may construct a sanctuary.
I alone wither in this house
not my own
because the word “own”
derives Possession
and It has struck me that
wherever I am, it is not Mine.
I write for you on the chance
You might hear my cries
in the nights we forget to sleep
through paper walls
thin as sheets of ice.
Avarice cradles me and
if paper money was praise
forgive me for my sins lord,
I am so greedy.
I am most beautiful
when I am anguished
so slit my wrists
bleed petals and prose
let my tragedy be a comedy
and if some great poet
narrated my privation
would you finally
shed a tear for me?
Safety
“I’m sorry.” is a safety net,
but these are words you
forfeit the right to believe
because upon my lips
it catches on my tongue
like a song that I’d
lost the lyrics to
but in reality I’ve simply
Become a foreigner in sincerity.
I know my mind yearns,
dreams of dredging up old
fragments of a vintage mirror.
“Let me piece her together,”
but even my heart knows
I am shackled to folly
But as a slave to the past
I sow seeds of regression.
I am a muse
in your philosophy
the portrait you’ve painted
in arbitrary brushstrokes
pigmented with withered
flowers; collusion with ink,
you smear your legacy
across this canvas of flesh
and we look nothing alike.
Corpse
A corpse of devotion
is an overplayed requiem
butchered on the keys of
A dissonant piano
because you wanted me to
learn and I never practiced
Even if the lessons
had costed you
your weekly wages.
A corpse of devotion
is ardent in irony
a fickle reminiscence
of a time that
perhaps once there was
warmth, color in the
Flesh and sinews strung
across decaying bones
but that memory has passed.
A corpse of devotion
is no corpse at all
It is a trapeze artist
teetering on the thinnest
line between Life and Death
as though she is waiting
for the slightest breeze
to tip her in one
direction or the other.