Ogress by Lyn Li Che

Ogress
Lyn Li Che

April, and already the spectre
            of wet between my thighs, the promise

of chafing. I dab myself with baby powder
            and think of the soft of my mother’s arms,

how I wasn’t allowed an extra bowl of rice
            after I couldn’t fit into her secondhand shirt—

my stomach spilling out the seams. Eighth grade
            and I was already destined to be lonely,

growing up in a forest of perfect Chinese legs,
            more perfect Chinese daughters. Years later

and I’m still thinking of the girls at swim class:
            scimitars of shoulder blades, right angles

where limb met body. After Jenna scrawled ogress
            across my textbook, I sucked my stomach in

until I passed out trying to fold myself
            into my body, any body. Embarrassed,

I told people I had a fainting disease.
            Sometimes, I hold my breath in the bath

and imagine myself beautiful—green
            mottling my skin, fangs unknotting my teeth.

I touch my brutish face in the mirror:
            all of it aching, heavy. All of it me.