julie chen
“She’s so little,” they cooed. “She probably doesn’t understand what we’re saying.”
They smiled at my presumed naiveté
as if watching a clueless newborn puppy
attempt to walk,
skidding and sliding over slick floors.
Without realizing,
I’d smile back,
the corners of my mouth pulling up
as if being tugged by marionette strings.
But I knew more than they could have ever imagined.
I am a deceivingly delicate rose, with razor-sharp thorns and a long, elegant stem. I wonder if I have brightened the world’s light, or if I have dimmed its already faint glow. I hear millions of voic
Trigger Warning: This post contains references to depression and self-harm. Euthanasia: the practice of killing someone who is very ill and will never get better in order to end their suffering, usual
“Waigong, smoking is bad,” my squeaky six-year-old voice protested as my grandfather lit a cigarette while we waited for the school bus. He looked up from his lighter, an amused smile making its way a