self-destruct sequence initiated

by Katelyn Deng, 27'

Photograph by Man Lai Esther Yu

somewhere in New York City,

the streets are silent.

the world slumbers in murky fog,

and a girl stands in front of the mirror.

she can’t remember how long she’s been there

but it’s been a while.

her eyes are dull, fingers clenched 

as she stares at her reflection.

the house is silent; it will be hours before her parents wake,

hours before she even needs the schoolbag

hanging limp near her wardrobe or the

dusty textbooks stacked on her desk.

for now, she is alone.

the girl looks at herself.

first, her hair.

streams of starless twilight, flowing between her fingers.

she likes her hair—no, she hates her hair.

it isn’t twilight anymore.

blondies are more of my thing,

the boy she crushed on for eight months, six days

had told her after she asked him out

so she curled it, she waved it, she bobbed it

she erased her twilight for Marilyn Monroe golden

and swelled with triumph when the boy’s eyes

followed her into physics class, hungrily, greedily.

but now the curls and waves are sickly, drooping, stringy

the dull streaks of gold remain only to taunt her

yes, she hates her hair.

so now, the girl raises her hands, she pinches each blonde-twilight strand

and she pulls: length after length, piece after piece

until glistening beads of blood well up

like stains of crimson wine across her now-bare scalp

until her head throbs and a dull, pounding ache lingers

until she doesn’t care.

next her voice.

her voice is strong – no, her voice is cursed

it is cursed, it is weak, it is dead

because when the boy came up to her after school

and asked if she wanted to go somewhere,

she said sure.

because when he told her about his love for you Oriental babes

after downing six shots of lime vodka,

she only nodded.

because when he asked if she wanted to see his new car,

she didn’t say no.

because she couldn’t open her mouth when he pushed her down

because she couldn’t scream when it happened

because she couldn’t say anything after

yes, her voice is cursed.

so now, the girl screams, and no sound comes out

but she can hear it all the same

she screams, she tears at her throat 

until she has screamed and shouted and wailed

all the screams, shouts, wails she will ever need

until her voice is shattered into a thousand pieces

until she doesn’t care.

then her skin.

dainty, soft, snowy like a swan’s feathers

her skin is clean – no, her skin is filthy.

it is dirty, it is grimy, it is tainted

by his hands and her sins

her skin is no pure white, only a sinful yellow:

yellow for her ancestors, yellow for exotic

and no matter how much soap she uses

no matter how many hours she spends

in the shower, the water pelting her in fury

no matter how hard she scrubs and scrubs and scrubs,

trying to repent, trying to regret

the invisible dirt only clings tighter to her body

corrupted. sullied. damaged.

yes, her skin is filthy

so now, the girl digs her nails into her arm, and she peels back,

layer by layer, muscle after muscle

until she’s stripped herself of her yellow sin

until she is naked, exposed, bare, bones

and she has been baptized again in sweet relief

until she doesn’t care

then her eyes.

soft circles of chocolate brown,

her eyes are pretty—no, her eyes are ugly.

because they betray her, they torture her

they force her to see his perfect eyes

hovering inches above her, 

glaring into her soul and crushing it

eyes blue as the sky, blue as glacial ice

eyes that sparkle like frost against his golden hair

and she still sees him, no matter how hard

she shuts her eyes closed

yes, her eyes are ugly.

so now, the girl reaches into each eye socket

she tugs on each orb, and she cradles

them in her bony hands, slowly squeezing

until the spheres are crushed into nothing but slithery pulp

and she will never see those blue eyes ever again

until the world fades dark, her reflection is gone

until she doesn’t care.

and now her mind.

the intelligence she had always treasured, always prized

the mind that had gifted her with full scores and

her teacher’s praise, her parent’s pride

she is smart–no, she is stupid, stupid, stupid

she thought it would be fine, following the boy into 

his Mercedes that reeked of pot and liquor, 

she thought she was special when she really was just

one more Oriental girl who dyed her hair blonde,

who went drinking at foreign bars, who was silent

she thought she knew everything when she really hadn’t

and a part of her still wonders

maybe if she hadn’t just played the part he wanted her to play

maybe if she hadn’t just tried to be the perfect China doll

would it have changed things?

maybe

but it’s too late now, and she knows it

so now, the girl – the skeleton – simply releases it:

her beautiful, cursed, loved, hated mind

she releases it and waits, 

until the boy is gone forever

until she feels the crumbling, the dissolving,

she lets herself go still and quiet

finally, finally, she doesn’t care.

somewhere in New York City,

the streets are beginning to stir.

the early morning hums with life:

free, happy, vibrant life.

it doesn’t matter.

it has already happened.