or, onwards, singapore

Poetry by Annika Lee

Edited by Naomi Acosta

i travel to my parents’ home / where i am tourist and native both / the air heavy on my shoulders / with the weight of memory / and i haven’t eaten in six years / my body crumpling in on itself for want of home / piercing the nacre i built around my bruised-peach heart / and i didn’t know how to breathe / until i was here and now i drown in air / and gorge myself on forgotten history / the years slicing my throat to shreds / and i bleed across this island desire falling like tears / where i tread upon her face / like my heart will make up for all the years i never returned / like it will cross the sea between her and / me on outstretched wings and bring me back home / is this city i miss like a bruise / but still don’t know despite its river coursing through my veins / and filling the void i have for a belly / and i was passed back and forth / from shore to shore spun round and round / so i didn’t know where / the compass in my ribcage pointed / or where my aching bones could sleep / but now the expanse of the ocean carries me on and on / until i am home.