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enough
then,
when i’m dead
and lifeless
and cold,
when i can kiss your acidic expectations away
one by one,
when i can be free to clutch desperately
at the scattered shards remaining of myself in an iron grip
a reminder that a girl lived
beneath the facade;
then,
when i’m
no longer plagued by distracting dreams
of another low-income job,
because writing won’t save me from starving,
because the letters “p” and “h” and “d” were carved onto my forehead as an infant
for aunts and uncles to gush and marvel at,
memories
of what i could’ve been
and what i no longer could be;
then,
when i’m no longer the disgrace of the family
the once-gifted child led astray,
no longer falling victim to your scathing, citrus-sharp comparisons
that fly by without warning in rapid-mouth streams of dart-like chinese
raging down so densely that there was no chance for me to even lift my head out of the water
and take a gasping breath;
then,
when i’m no longer capable of disappointment or failure or life
eyes suspended like butterfly wings, unblinking
feathery lips pursed and frozen for eternity
never to talk back or flunk another test again
like that sarcophagus mold of your ideal daughter constantly looming overhead
so tight that it
smothers;
would it be
then,
when i’m dead
and lifeless
and cold
that i’d finally be enough for you?
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