Digital Fragments
After Ocean Vuong
My heart is a fruit, halved.
Anger, a hot stone I mistaken for food.
A knot, tied firmly within. A fist tightened.
Loosen your grip, I say.
Fuck off, it replies.
Resilience is an heirloom, a hand-me-down quietly stained with blood.
I will learn to grow into it.
for my therapist:
I tried writing about
but when I got up to
my hands, again, refused.
It was the book. The hunger for sex, the animalistic familiarity of the description.
I sit, eyes gleaning anguish from the page.
therapist says, write, don’t stop. write until you’re undone.
You mean write into oblivion? Write into a flood?
Molars clenched, spirit unrooted.
Return to this fatigue that envelopes.
This locus of corroding energy.
This demon, scaling my back.
My body screams. My tears take their place in defense.
This bed is a sinkhole.
My heart is a fruit, halved.
Anger, a hot stone I mistaken for food.
A knot, tied firmly within. A fist tightened.
Loosen your grip, I say.
Fuck off, it replies.
Resilience is an heirloom, a hand-me-down quietly stained with blood.
I will learn to grow into it.
for my therapist:
I tried writing about
but when I got up to
my hands, again, refused.
It was the book. The hunger for sex, the animalistic familiarity of the description.
I sit, eyes gleaning anguish from the page.
therapist says, write, don’t stop. write until you’re undone.
You mean write into oblivion? Write into a flood?
Molars clenched, spirit unrooted.
Return to this fatigue that envelopes.
This locus of corroding energy.
This demon, scaling my back.
My body screams. My tears take their place in defense.
This bed is a sinkhole.
Christine Deng (she/her) is a Chinese-American writer, educator and baby gamer. She’s currently working on a poetry translation project of her late grandmother's work. Born in NYC, she presently resides in Hoboken, NJ and can be found at @deng.girl on Instagram and @deng_girl on Twitter.
