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  • Writer's pictureErica Hu



The first rays of spring

did not make me

more a person I like.

So I dug a hole in my backyard

and tossed down my skin.

This is my season to grow​;

I will love the little things,

and kiss its different faces,

this world.



I kill myself daily

to put on a display.

I toss the dice a thousand times

to see the satisfaction

in its eyes,

the world.

Still all I feel

when I lie in bed

is a hollow shell.

I live life

the way puzzles

pinpoint to a crime wall.

One thing justifies another;

Body parts are dissected,

still nothing emerges.

Thus the vaporized

conjures an array

I run down in my head

to make sense out of nothing,

just so through a glass darkly

I look a bit more lovable

than yesterday.

A unilateral ladder I climb on.

Steps lead me

into the future,

the mist no one foresees.

I’ve traversed a forest

without slowing down;

I’ve left stories half-told,

pages half-read.

The ending unveils itself

in black and white

as I sit on a stone,

waiting to be seen.

I close my eyes,

And even the void I could not see.

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