Tina Huang

Cellulite, not the lilac stalactites you see on
Netflix flicks, not the Grainy-Indie-Understated
grandeur & inspire me with your white saviorism callowness,
golden spoon, golden fork, golden tongue entitlement cellulite
on my dirty bag, fat fingers, stupid head doesn’t
kneel, not for your crumbs, not for fractals of angry wholes &
plates painted in false silver & diamond perpetuity cellulite.

My cellulite stalactite is a glass of 1990 wine, bruised purple topaz
bandaged in homemade quilts of mother & her mother &
wordy canopies hiding the hearts of plastic Barbies in caves. Their
teeth are my swords stolen from misplaced princes drunk on
baked goods & elixirs feigning heroism. Before you, my years
looked into windows without looking away, embracing yellowness of face,
eyes of father, tears of breath, yet always, my skin still dries &
always, my hug still hugs.


This work has been published in Beetle Magazine's July 2020 Issue

Illustration by Dhanashree Pimputkar

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