my trauma
has short brown bangs
and is named for a flower
she makes bad jokes
and spits when she screams
my trauma was seen
by the golden-mouthed
as they sat in church
fingers steepling
eyes narrowed
by the aunts and uncles
who ate ga lay gai just fast enough
that their tongues were
always preoccupied
by the girls at my lunch table
my trauma
cooks every night
packs my lunch
sits on my chest and
crams vitamins into my mouth
my trauma holds me captive from myself
charges no ransom
my trauma taught me that love
is not the only thing
that makes your knees quiver
my trauma is sitting across the table
and in spite of her
I am dreaming of the day
I see the sun behind my eyes again
of the day I come home to myself again
Maxmila Dang is 19 years old and an editor-in-chief of MELANINcollective, an online platform for female/trans/non-binary artists of color. Ey like poetry, fiction, and cold, hard blasphemy. Check em out at www.praytomeinstead.tumblr.com
By Susan Tolonen