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.