i don’t remember when the world was torn 

out of my hands. i watched as hills turned 

into sloped sidewalks, and my home: a rusted 

butcher shop, wisps of incense lingering from the burns

left on my family’s flesh. my fingers are still gripping 

onto edges of sunken clouds as i beg for skies 

to stop hammering into my mouth & melt the iron 

gloves they use like worship to brand my scarred ankles 

with things like god that i cannot understand. but they 

don’t know my tongue as well as i do, watching uncertain 

as it curls back to brush the walls of my sore throat, 

clawing out with fervor words they claim plagues 

eardrums: ngo ngai nei / please stop / & instead 

they treat my chest like it is a jigsaw: my organs 

forced apart until they are the only ones left to piece 

me back together. but my throat stays locked & empty

because i’m not allowed to spit another word that keeps 

my foreign tongue stuck together to the words they claim

unbelonging.

translations // ngo ngai nei: Cantonese for “i beg you”