BY ALEXIS WU
Copyright is held by the author.
i.
I want to forgive my childhood self,
but this is purgatory: every glistening sky
comes stitched with a lining of citrus tears.
It was us, hanging upside down by our knees,
saints in reverse,
dreaming of a love big enough
to one day save us.
But the only saving grace we were ever taught
was death, and this is why your name
lies in the graveyard of my old church,
drowning in ivy: forgotten.
ii.
We baptized ourselves
in kisses that didn’t love us back,
in beer and holy water,
in strangers screaming in the wrong language.
Caramel dusks, candied apples,
all rotting to dirt and worms
in bleached autumn wind.
When heaven was a place,
and the world was a vacation spot,
when you asked me, once, are we going to hell?
and I replied, probably,
and you smiled and you took my hand
as we waited for the tide to take us away.
iii.
When my pain turned into seafoam,
and I whispered my prayers into the sand,
I visited your grave, drowning in apologies.
We were just kids, etching our names
into the silent church pews,
believing we’d live forever
and that living forever was a good thing.
I stood by the beach and cried,
soaking my sins in saltwater,
seeking a salvation that would never find me.
This is the divinity, the trinity, the amity.
And although I’m a sorry sight to see,
without you, I became me.
***
Alexis Wu is a 13-year-old Chinese-American poet based in Long Island, NY, U.S. She co-authored Under the Deep, a poetry collection that explores society, selfhood, and truth. Her work has been published in Yin Literary and Aorta Literary Magazine. She is also a member of the Write Cause newsletter team. She should probably stop romanticizing her life and start living it — but
where’s the fun in that? Find her on Instagram @a.w.underthedeep.poetry.