3:00 A.M. My slumped head and shoulder silhouetted

against the flickering golden light of my bedside

lamp. I am

wondering.

My mind travelling, floundering down the tunnel of lost hopes,

unfulfilled dreams, fantasies of what

could have been. I am

wandering.

The memories swirling before me, each one threatening to take me

farther and farther into my past, until my mind is screaming to let go

and my face is matted with tears,

almost as if I have waterboarded

myself.

水刑.

A perfect ode to the ways I am not Chinese,

Although I wish to be.

I look up characters on Google Translate,

ask my parents about calligraphy, and

barely manage basic conversation,

all ways in which my Chinese struggles to remain

itself.

Even in China, the land of animal abuse,

pets receive respect, but my neighbor’s

furball of a dog

scares me to no end with its

growling and sharp teeth,

so I speed-walk away and throw

grass at it

whenever it stops by my house.

I play the piano, the instrument grudgingly

practiced by all the Chinese kids I know,

But my body can never sit still for more than

30 minutes, and my hands would rather

Scroll through social media.

It is 3:00 A.M. and if I were really

Chinese, I would be preparing for

the trials of my future, but instead,

I procrastinate, my mind

wandering.