after simone de beauvoir
amy gong liu
Girl is me, my optometrist, my butcher, my muse, sex. Girl likes to take pictures when the glitter glints off of her nose. Girl read a poem, once: “If I slept with the Girl / what would sleep imply?” Girl never bought the weighted blanket that eased tragedy, but the candle burned in the back. Girl predicated daylight. (That’s what Girls do. They raise fevers, and clarity when the hurricanes strike like madness. That’s how Christ pierced through himself.) Girl’s hands are soft on my ass, and they’ve never held a needle before, but Girl is smart; yes. She cuts through my rings.
Amy Gong Liu is a Chinese-American writer based in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and has been published in The Rumpus, Hobart, Empty Mirror, Foglifter, Ruminate Magazine, RHINO Poetry, and others. She thinks too much (or perhaps too little).