War, he said
When my father declared war on me,
my battlefield stood empty
and the earth bare.
His line of soldiers, shoulder to shoulder
in a single file line, wrapped on for miles and miles.
He smiled victoriously, as my insides died and crumbled
to dust.
The shattered pieces of my soul were
all that was left to protect me, it’s jagged edges and
irregular shapes, that learned to cut, instead of
soothe.
To die at the hands of my father.
Just. My. Luck.
His battle cry of hundreds, was met with my single roar.
The ‘fuck you,’ came out softer,
more like a whispered ‘I’m fucked’, instead.
The naivety of trust rolled
straight into frenzied bloodshed. Me against them.
Death, by a thousand pin pricks to the skin. Slivers of dermis,
waving their white flags of surrender among a crimson sea.
My eyes poured briney tears, each bearing a familiar heart
pushed through the earth, carving stone and sediment.
And eventually, I returned to the very womb of humankind.
Landing in a silent jail deep, deep within the Earth.
There I laid with shallow, bated breath, praying for a gardener of the
ground to sever the decaying roots of my body.
Only to find my own hands on the
axe, an unspeakable, irreversible act.
Of a circular cycle, now split.
Birthing stumps of agony, begging for a well of long-forgotten
Love.
The scars never healed, slowly oozing blood
through the barely there scabs. The smell of iron and rust, a
constant reminder of a body glued to memories of the past.
Until a pool, luminous and magnificent came into view.
A boon in the desert, almost as sweet as a dessert.
I was forced to face myself, in the still reflection
of the translucent water.
And finally swim across broken layers of grief,
to embrace a flickering flame, still warm as the day I was born.
The longer I stared, the more I started to admire
my scars.
The beautiful marks of a sordid journey.
These wounds lined me, shoulder to shoulder,
A battalion that never retreated in the face
of an enemy that should have never been mine.
Strong, proud, unyielding.
Loving, even.
And from the water rose nymphs, sprites, and elves,
who worked their magic to heal the bleeding,
but left the shining scars.
I am a Taiwanese-Hakka American writer, activist, and artist based in New York City. I'm drawn to stories and emotions connected to justice, healing and culture. My passion lies in fostering anti-oppressive and inclusive spaces through writing and community building. I am currently working on an anthology of poems exploring intergenerational trauma and completing two cultural literary novels that touch on themes of friendship, life challenges, and personal healing.