dear diary
by Blythe Wong
dear diary, i think i fell in love today
she sang Sinatra, velvety like melted chocolate,
her eyes gleaming in some special way
and though i knew what trouble this was to bring
blood boomed in my ears and
all i wanted was to watch her sing
she swayed on stage, flushed with bliss
and all i could think was
didn’t Sappho say her skin sparked like this?
dear diary, i told her today
with mercury pulsing through my veins and
the metronome in my chest at vivace
there i stood, singing her praise
like an evangelist at church, but
with chocolates and a fifty dollar bouquet
her chilling glare was the last of her i saw
i wasn’t to be trusted, she said
leaving me ashamed, and completely rubbed raw.
dear diary, i was blackmailed today
he told me he would out me
and i felt a stutter in my airway
how cruel one must be, how grotesquely flawed
he gripped my skin by the corners and
crushed my carefully curated facade
i willed the crack of a palm and an imperfect scream
his cheek throbbed scarlet red
in my eccentric daydream.
dear diary, i finally came out today
and my momma, she told me
i couldn’t possibly be gay
she said i was just in it to fit in
she knew my friends,
with their dyed hair, their punk rock sin
and i just wanted that “rainbow privilege”
because colleges crave diversity and
queer employees boost the company image.
dear diary, i think i’ll be okay
momma hasn’t come around but
i took pops to pride today
although the flags were twenty a piece
and momma would surely be disappointed
he knew their true value and bought one for me
as we walked home, taking the scenic track
i squeezed his hand tight
for my flag waved proudly from the opening in his backpack.
the candy in the back of my mouth
by Blythe Wong
1.
summertime sweetness under the fireworks
far away, they were blooming dreams and
the thunder of my heart
like shooting stars dipped in morning dew and rainbows
and your kisses, they were like
fizzy lemon drops in my mouth.
2.
it’s four o’ clock in the morning but
the dark circles under my eyes
they ache for you
when i wake up, the taste of sweet citrus
on my tongue and the rawness of my lips are
happily reminiscent of childlike wonder.
3.
i look up when i’m under you and
your ceiling reeks of confusion and doubt
but my world begins to spin again with the
raised corners of your mouth, the squint of your eyes
the candy in my mouth turns sweet and
i know it’s because of you.
4.
on my neck are blue and purple blossoms
i find it funny how broken capillaries are now
symbols of ownership, but i think i like it
yet with the scrape of your teeth
my soul feels stolen and your lemon drops grow flat—
i tie my hair up regardless.
5.
backed into a corner: adulation turns to avarice, malignant like a tumor
your candy throbs against the roof of my mouth and
i want to spit it out but you—
you’ve grown tired and i have not, so i continue
my teeth ache and the moon laughs and
the asphalt pushes up against my soles.
6.
bruised cherries and raspberry slush stain my underwear,
this time not as a monthly annoyance but rather
a safe haven, for your disgust is my escape—
i no longer need to part my legs
the pain ceases, but i’m dismissed often now
your lemon drops become unforgivably acidic.
7.
it has grown hollow, the candy in my mouth
i try to speak: one scrape of my teeth and it shatters, leaving nothing
but a souring, saccharine aftertaste and
an impression that i did something wrong
for my lips are still chapped and sticky and
despite myself, i’m aching—
aching for the candy in the back of my mouth.
Michelangelo Child
by Blythe Wong
TRIGGER WARNING: SELF-HARM
Tell me, lonely child
Why do you hide your zebra–striped arms
The raw pink flesh on your wrists
Why cover your pain with layers of cloth and concealer
Are you afraid of letting them know how deeply you feel?
Tell me, lonely child
Why does the pocket knife in your pencil case feel like home
When you are so sickened by the lines it carves
You did this to yourself, you should be proud
How can you look at your creations and weep?
Tell me, lonely child
Why do you lock the door before making art
Aren’t you proud of the way you carve your pathetic self
Into a marvelous sculpture of blood and bones
Did Michelangelo shun and ridicule his masterpieces too?
Tell me, lonely child
Why continue to create if you are so ashamed
Have you become so infatuated with your art that
Putting your knife away is like losing an appendage
Are the patterns on your skin the equivalent of crack cocaine?
Tell me, lonely child
Why do you balk at sharing your art
You know it is the only way out
Are you afraid that they’ll take your work away?
You can let the scars linger as long as they like, you know
Let me tell you this, brave child
Your magna opera are beautiful
But keep creating your sculptures and soon
You’ll be nothing more than a shrunken bag of skin and veins
Sucked dry by artistic mania and tissues wet with blood
It’s time to give up your blade, brave child
There’s more to life than “pretty” pink lines
Unlock your door and roll up your sleeves
There will be someone waiting to kiss your wounds
And it’ll get better from there, I promise.
– From one Michelangelo to another
Icarus, My Love
by Blythe Wong
Icarus, my love
Your wings may be ghastly skeletons of
candle wax and odd feathers
seared black by the unforgiving sun,
Nevertheless, I will remember when
majestic feathery beasts sprouted forth from
your back, brilliant white and thrumming with faith.
They call you arrogant, but I call it hopeful bravery
That is something I can only wish to have.
Icarus, my love
Could you spare me your cocktails of hubris and vainglory,
or perhaps a hefty slice of your ego for dinner?
I am starved and would like to survive today.
My love,
One day I will become proud like you
and I shall build my own waxy wings,
Soaring high to meet that brilliant, blazing star
melting myself to the bone, victorious
then falling like a blue flamed comet,
My scorched, searing dreams trailing behind me
As I enter the atmosphere, the world shall tremble.
Icarus, my love
When I pierce the heartless, bitter sea
swallowed by the relentless tide,
I will burn through the waters until I find you—
—you, buried deep in the ocean floor, engulfed in silt and
fine stardust, your pride reduced to a smoldering ember.
Then I too, will fade out beside you,
the last remnants of our bravery and pride
evanescing to ocean ash.
Icarus, my love
When we scatter to the ends of the Earth
carried by capering currents and
the salt-laden winds atop the sea
When you forget me in the
Howl of the Tide and Luna’s pull,
Remember
the way the sky roared when we flew,
the way the universe shattered around us.
We may have fallen, my love, but we fall triumphant.
And then, goodbye
Icarus, my love
as unrelenting as I.
the world remains cold
by Blythe Wong
night falls—
—the stars refuse to descend,
so i do instead.
one too many frigid, hazy grey nights and
i am left adrift, craving warmth the way
an infant craves his mother’s embrace,
the way i crave her silken voice purring my name.
you, strength, sit atop my table
calling to me from that amber gilded tarot deck.
sunlight kisses your freckles and beckons to me:
enraptured instantly, my discordant tears subside.
your rays, like molten gold, intertwine with my eyelashes
your soft milky hands cup my wet cheeks—
—but the world remains cold.
i carry you in my pocket, running my thumb across
the battered top of your card as
warm spring zephyrs dance about my fingertips.
you smile at me when you catch me looking: your lips are
cherry red, the color of an eccentric daydream
i envelope myself in that beautiful carmine—
—still, the world remains cold.
we play often, sometimes as children, other times as lovers
you braid wildflowers into my hair and
whisper poetry beside my ear, gentle lavender stanzas
the color of hydrangeas left out in the rain.
yet love smothers under inequality, and hand in hand we suffer
for you are strong and i am not—
—and so the world remains cold.
you stare out at me, cerulean eyes inquisitive
unable to understand the coldness that persists.
i have received fizzy kisses that taste of champagne and
dozed in strength’s dewy meadows, secure in your arms
you have played your fiddle, making tunes like melodious honey
but i have failed you and
you, strength, have failed me—
—for the world remains cold.
About the Author
Blythe is a senior studying at Hong Kong International School. Through creative writing, especially poetry, she likes to share important events and reflect on emotions. Most of her pieces explore sexuality and self-growth, so her writing is highly personal. Although she has only recently begun to share her poems with others, Blythe hopes that they can form a connection with her pieces and find solace in them. Some of her other pieces have also been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and the Bitter Fruit Review, so readers can check those out too if they’re interested.