by Kristine Ong Muslim
There can never be enough room in this world
for me to touch you.
I must take down that sign
on my wall
I am suddenly nineteen and there is
nothing I can do but wait
for me to grow older again.
Like the moon I can only change
shapes. There is no meaning I intend
to convey in that process.
I don’t mean to be so good;
I only want to fill my hands with steam
and see if it can still hurt me.
I can never wait for me to
grow another year older.
I have so much to do...so much
Now all I really wanted was to mend the wrong
stitches that no longer seemed to fit
the right wounds. I’d drown them all
in steel and cast them like
an angel’s wing. Then I’d make myself
a nice red balloon, the one
with a moonface against the swamp,
and fill it with steam.
I can still wait
until it explodes.