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Good girl

October 19, 2015

He said, “I know it’s stupid to ask ‘why are you depressed?’ but why do you think you are depressed?” He doesn’t know a thing. He’s twenty years old and he thinks he knows how to make me come. But then again, men of all ages have thought they could make me come.

“I don’t know, I’ll have to ask Dr. G on Tuesday I guess.” I look into the dark and try to make out your face.

It’s because of ____. It’s because of you. It’s because of ____, because of the Truman and because of my waist size.

But none of them knows a thing. He looks at the cuts on my thighs and he says, “Good, this time I left marks here instead of on your neck.” He doesn’t know that last time after the marks faded I took the razor to my collarbone. He thinks I got wet from hickeys to my shoulder but he doesn’t know a thing.

“We’re so fucking close right now I can look into your soul.” He thinks fucking means a thing.

He thinks fucking means a thing to me. But he doesn’t know anything. He’s twenty years old and he’s never been tested for an STD. I’m twenty-one and I get tested every month. But I would get tested a million more times if I could have you inside me again. His mouth is dry on my skin, but your tongue glistens on my cunt.

You were so embarrassed to have come unexpectedly. I wanted to make you come a million more times. “I have great self-control.” He doesn’t know a thing about losing control intimately.

He choked me and made me gag. He thinks I love to suck cock but he doesn’t know that you didn’t let me touch you three months ago tonight because, “Tonight is all about you.” I have bruises on my wrists because I know everything about this rawness in my pussy. If someone ever loves me gently I will not believe them because when I believed you, you hurt me more than four fingers with no lube.

I let them, because they know. They know that if I’m not good enough for you at least I’m good for fucking. That’s how I always have been.

Iris Zhang, October15

On Foot – Edited April11

April 29, 2011

If home be my destination, you are the voyage–
The walk from here to where:
The barefoot trek on pebble gravel,
The journey that grows garish and weary;
The adventure on calm bullets of inexplicable silence,
The trip desperate to prove functionality on a fatal Tuesday morning.
The crossing on smothering brick-red stones smooth like water;
But water splashes like the feast of starvation rushes through each bloated vein–
The refreshing expedition to a familiar dread,
The travel designed for the traveling rather than the destination.
And before expected, home, is where my reflection ends.
Sand and dust;
Soil and dirt;
Scars and dreams;
These memories and footsteps never liberated
attach ingrained to the souls of my worn-out sneakers–
Know that the road on which it lingered later absorbs footprints of immovable weight, of companionship and cheerful comraderie.

Voyager lost at the end of the voyage–
Yes, if home is where the voyage ends, you are the voyage and I the vessel drifting at sea.

Iris Zhang, Dec09, edited April11

You always seem to know where to find me and I’m still here behind you
In the corner of your eye.
I’ll never really learn how to love you
But I know that I love you through the hole in the sky.

Where I see you
And that’s not an invitation
That’s all I get
If this is communication
I disconnect
I’ve seen you, I know you
But I don’t know
How to connect, so I disconnect

Communication, The Cardigans.

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February 27, 2010

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