My mother told me on her last birthday that she would be fine leaving this world at her current age of 55.
I’m smiling. Supa’s hand is in mine, as I trail behind her. Surrounding us, small reunions burst like fireworks.
I haven't been letting myself go; I've been setting myself free...
My skin -- already stretched too thin -- broke then.
An erasure poem, adapted from a passage in The Bookmaking Habits of Select Species, a short story by Ken Liu in his book "The Paper Menagerie."