AYA

i think we are all art with explanations that are too simplistic

she used to hate herself a lot. 

it wasn't a particularly violent or loud hatred-- not the kind that plants picketed gardens of rancor, screaming with a frothing mouth and bold sign, stakes stabbed with rabid relish in front of schools or churches or government buildings, 

or the kind that rips bullets into the flesh of strangers over lines on maps

or drops bombs with a single, careless release

and suddenly city and children and mothers and fathers and sons and daughters and friends are burning, burning

 and just g o n e .  they didn't agree with you, why should they l i v e ?

no, it wasn't like that.

it was far more subtle-- the kind that thrums slow poison in tangled veins, 

a constant shadow that ceaselessly whispers, "you shouldn't even try; there are no stars in you."

"you should only move to make way for all the people who are more 

p r e c i o u s." 

it clamped disgusting sweaty hands over her sad pink mouth whenever she wanted to speak.

she couldn't stop s h a k i n g.  but still she offered her bloody hands to whatever indifferent ray of light would deign to touch them. 

she gave crumbling pieces of her glowing,  damaged heart like gifts

 and prayed that they were well-received.

a.n.-  thank you so much for reading :). i'm not entirely sure where i will go with this yet, so updates may be sporadic.  lowercase intentional because a e s t h e t i c :). also, this is my first time writing a character who is a fourth-generation Japanese-American girl, and i plan on doing a lot of research and reading and talking to people, but please, please don't hesitate to rip this to shreds with constructive criticism if i write something that is untrue, offensive or stereotypical. possible mistakes come from ignorance, not malice, but that doesn't give me an excuse for not learning. again, thanks for reading. you are precious and wonderful and so, so, valuable.