In a perfect world, I can hand in my resignation letter
and call it quits.
In this world, I squeeze my breasts for milk
before collapsing from fatigue
the way some clients return overseas
because they could no longer afford to live in Flushing.
I have no home but here,
and best vibes only cannot help me much
when they want to hang me upon the stilts for show.
I feel cynicism in the photos of mansions
you are so eager to show me,
flipping through your phone.
O mi amor, I want to say, kissing your ears,
don’t be naive, your home is right here,
the way I want to lie down,
dampening my ankles with wet sand.
At night, when I can no longer believe in that toxic
positivity when I’ve poured all my heart in
and look where it’s gotten me,
I wonder if I wear the mask
and smile in this redemption arc,
will I truly be saved, and if so, whether I won’t
become a shell imprint of my former self,
and be unable to love?