Bra Fitting

Early November

 

I got a bra fitting for the first time last Sunday.

Hey, I’m 16 years old and I’ve always kinda joked that my chest is too small to need a bra anyway. I’ve more than survived on ‘training’ bras and bralettes. I guess that looking at enough girls at Westlake High School, models on Instagram, fashion sites; breasts that look good have a roundness that you can really only get with padding. Besides, everyone has real bras; no, everyone has bras, and I’m the only teenager in her right mind that has never hooked one before.

My mom is very supportive of my transitioning (from Asian to white). Continue reading

Excerpt from “Origin Story”

It sinks into her rib marrow; the red spot shudders and rips open her dead chest. Expanding bullets, the first death of the night—Wukesong intersection Wukesong intersection… did you hear? the countdown starts here—10pm, the first death hour—10:30pm, they blockade the Muxidi bridges with up-turned trucks and burn it all a rancid purple… military tanks, military rams piercing the broad metals like pencils through palms… so they face the wide row of leveled points, arm on stranger’s neck, chests to the sky!—11pm, they’re in Tiananmen Square, survivors saturated and staggering with blood, retching Wukesong! Muxidi! and they throng and conglomerate (do we hate? do we kill?) in a reddening mind-haze—12am: Red, the quiet girl from the front-row of Economics, has been killed.—12:30am, they raw and boil, they glaze and squint: the damp smell of salty copper is thickening their skulls, they wait, roaring, scraping their necks—they deserve this much—or the force of the spin tears their sense and they scrape the green men’s necks—their sticks, rocks, and glass are taken by each other—1:30am, the Square is sealed with military: booms whiz over their heads, or into their knees—2am:
“We entreat you in peace, for democracy and freedom of the motherland, please refrain from using force against peaceful student demonstrators”
and boom! sophomores convulse and bleed out—3:30am, too many have died, should they give it up—4am, traitor, coward, what leader you are: “Clearance of the Square begins Now”—they remain anyway, the bites of the clubs in their cheekbones and shattered thighs:
“This is the final struggle / Let us group together and tomorrow”
 they are engorged and stomach-tight on conviction! they stare into the night-green tank guns!
“The Internationale / Will be the human race”
and they’ve died a little too many…
—5:10am, it’s over, it’s over: they rise, they link arms and march over the icy cheeks of their friends.

Smoke rises over the city.

On Shaving, pt. 1

Smooth

The lack of light was striking—I bore my eyes to the cool air, staring forward into the ceiling. The blackness was oily and flowed into my ears. I sucked in the damp, summery fresh-shower scent as my mom crawled onto my bed. Suddenly her cool and rubbery fingers pricked my kneecap, then pressed down my shin and trailed upwards to my thigh.

“Whoah, so smooth…” her voice tangy and thick like strawberry puree, coolness smoothing down my leg, tracing up the shin. “No hair!” she murmured. Her fingertips slid down, up, down.
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