POLLUTING

 
 
Whosoever wears a jean skirt and pink sneakers sits on the stubby sidewalks in a park with male friends drinking at ten pm, whosoever watches the elderly practice dance routines at a distance with their loud folklore music echoing with cicada chirps, whosoever pulls a bottle resting on the ground and wipes the muddy sweat dripping off the sides, whosoever twists the metal cap open with the inner slab of her arm draws red screeching marks does not mind the pain, whosoever clanks the glass with a loud cheer and dumps the contents into the throat in one nonstop motion, whosoever ignores (or did not even feel) the vibration in her pocket of her cellphone, whosoever's cellphone had stopped vibrating after a continuous seven or eight nudges, whosever neglects the worrying calls of a fatherly figure in the midst of night, whosoever burps loudly and laughs, whosoever burps loudly again and this time some stomach acid and alcohol swells up halfway past the throat in a stringent manner, whosoever swallows that conglomeration again and had her throat burned and lungs caught with rushing lava, whosoever falters to the side of the sidewalk towards the dirty sewer filled with garbage, old water, and gum wrappers, whosoever neglects the judging vision of the elderly and pours down her own share of filth into the sewer, whosoever hears the sounds of her own heartbeat like drums coming out of her sleeves, whosoever wipes her mouth clean with the towlette her friend had offered, who had held her hair back while she shivered in the dark with short breathy gasps, whosoever rinses her mouth with a water bottle and tasted the astringency once more, this time diluted in taste, whosoever calls a cab home by flinging herself in front of a yellow car and waving her hands in butterfly motions, whosoever attempts to collect herself by hanging onto the railings inside the elevator in her building, who looks at her frail image from the mirrored walls, her hair wet and dripping from unknown fluids, whosoever finally returns home and smell the asiatic incense from a dimly lit room, whosoever tip toes into that room and remain at the bedside for minutes watching the gentle tide on her father's chest, whosoever spreads her fingers across his shoulders and shook him in a light rocking manner, saying Baba I'm home, whosoever awakens her father and sees his eyes crack open in slow motion like a newborn infant, who had sat up immediately and called her name with an unused voice, who had said baby you're finally home, who held her tightly in his blanket-warm arms, whosoever has guilt wrapped around her whole body like film dares not to exhale in fear of pungency, whosoever gains the courage to tell her father once again, Baba I'm leaving and slowly leaves his grasp, whosoever watches her father sink down again in his memory-foam mattress appearing seventy years older and fifty pounds heavier, whosoever wobbles to her pre-air conditioned room with inevitable hiccups and pulls out a duffel, fills it with underwear, garments, and cosmetics, whosoever steps out the eight hundred square footage apartment and leaves her father behind, who took one last glance back at the half shut door with half shut eyes, shall never return. 

A hardened piece of 
bubblegum.
bubblegum that
slips instead of sticks.

 
the way I consume
myself, through the forking and lifting of
nails, the ivory shells upon 

我想不用多說甚麼。。！！ 
 
 
 

 
i lost my way in the shallow end of
this river.

She became near-sighted in the second grade. It was probably a hereditary kind of thing; no one in school owned a pair of glasses yet, and kids made fun of her, called her four eyes. She didn't like how she looked in them either, like some sort of bulgy eyed chameleon, but she had to copy things from the board and there was no way out of that. 
 
There was a boy in the class who thought her glasses were cool. He asked her if he could try them on and she was hesitant, she thought he was teasing her. But he wasn't. He put them on and roamed around the room for a bit, and she liked how he looked in them, appearing slightly different than the rest of the boys. It was second grade, but she thought she was in love.
 

He kept a pair of subscription eyeglasses tucked in the inner pocket of his backpack, but they were not for seeing. It was a pair of dark rimmed lenses, folded cross-armed and glossy as a moon-lit lake wrapped up in the dainty tan cloth that the optometrist had gifted him when he made the purchase. He wore it often at school, at home, or even when he was grocery shopping. Everyone thought he was near-sighted. 
 
The first time he had tried on his friend's glasses was in second grade. A girl named Jill was the earliest of her peers to own a pair, and everyone got a kick out of trying them on. When he had put them on and opened his eyes, he felt a sudden faze as the world twisted and turned like jelly; the change was disorienting and uncomfortable.