womb
WRITTEN BY ALICIA HSU
she said that i would swell her abdomen, i would
become a curse, would settle in the crevices and
dips of her once languid body, conjoin the voids
until every empty part blew wide open under the
microscope. she said she threw up most nights
flicks of april dew and bits of me conglomerated;
but not enough, because i was still there, pushing,
pushing divots in her stomach. when i crawl out
of her womb i think that it is me she hates (carving
into her pearlescent bones that used to be beautiful
and sharp instead of just sharp, haunting, remnants
of me still leaking from her marrow), but it is herself
that she can’t stand the sight of anymore, no longer
one but two, two bodies for her mind and mouth to
sink in the sand she crawled from before, a shoreline
she drew with swollen toes and strong fingers. we
regress and i feed all the full parts of myself to her
until i find myself again with soft walls in my fists.
Alicia Hsu is a Taiwanese-American senior in New York. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, Blue Marble Review, and more. When she isn’t dreaming up new stories or escaping in a fantasy novel, you can find her watching nostalgic movies and taking walks with her two dogs.