Ace Chu
What If Nothing Ever Changes?
The breeze today almost feels unjust. The X-ray of my chest taped to the door flaps, adhered at the shoulders. I billow like a curtain, leaving my pale organs exposed, my translucent bones hiding graying paint. If there ever was a day to leave, this would be it. The grilles on my window rattle, the wind shaking it with both hands. Lately, I have become ashamed of my work.
Meanwhile, someone outside is emptying themselves out, by any means possible. It is a brutal torrent that I can barely envision. It must be killing them, to let out what sounds like more liquid than anybody can hold. The body clenches for a singular purpose, for expulsion. It is a yielding of the self, to become, for an eternal moment, an extended exhale.
A mynah lands on the windowsill, beak fresh with mud. An ant scrambles in my periphery. A car alarm goes off, begging to be heard. I scratch another line into the wall. Come, today, you are a challenge to me. You are a great gray that descends. If there is anything left of me when the year ends, it will be by my hands—they will be twitching, soil-stained, clenching in memory of holding and letting go.
Skink
Sun skink scrambles beneath my foot, unable to comprehend that we are two parts of a whole. These hands of mine were not made to hold—I run my finger down your back in my best impression of kindness as I watch your heart dent your skin.
All the while, seed pods shower from the sky, each one a lethal blow. Cicadas wail to be loved, the grass trembles at the wind’s touch. All that’s left is everything else.
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Ace Chu is a writer from Singapore whose work can be found in Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Bone Parade, and Tiger Moth Review, among others. He can be found at acechu.com.