I lay in bed next to her,

but Mother haunts me underneath the mattress,

grabbing onto the metal hinges.

She lurks behind the bathroom door,

riding the shrill wind banging against the windows.

She clings to the ceiling lights,

flickering in disgust.

When I peel off her clothes,

snaking along her skin

are pockets of red.

They scathe my hands

as I slide them across her.

You’re not homo right?

I thrust my tongue into hers,

feeling each corner a little too much,

dance to the beat of Chinese folk.

You’re not homo right?

I move down her body,

sucking each erect nipple,

soaking each in saliva.

She moans.

You’re not homo right?

My fingers find the spot

between her legs

and enter gently.

Her fingers claw on my back

and grip, hard.

You’re not homo right?

I hold her vibrations

I’m too tired to reply.

You’re not homo right?

About the Author

Karen Zheng is a queer, first-generation, Chinese-American undergraduate student studying English and Creative Writing.