LITTLE DEATHS

Sisi Li, Thailand/United States

to say, i’m sorry, is another way to say

i took your advice, down by the river. stole a candle and doused it in gasoline, violent paint

against a violet night. now you had said to wait for the explosion but i cupped the smoke and

drank it whole instead, retching. a test of limits - though of which cage, i can’t exactly name.

which is another way to say

i thought of you, before the storm fell. knees surrendering to the pavement, lilacs corroding my

throat, jagged and toothsome. the first raindrops landed like the sound of your voice. i lingered as

the suburbs dissolved, all around, returning to memory. which is another way to say

i traced your footsteps, stumbling over stray stones. in these woods i followed no compass, only

the trail of feathers that stained the underbrush. you see, i believed you possessed wings once.

my gaze tangled itself between the willow branches, shivering in rippling illusions. i have yet to

learn how to part mist from fog, anger from misery. which is another way to say

i rarely bleed, often scar.

i’m never the hunter, only his gun.

i dread losses more than i mourn them. which is to say

i’m sorry. i don’t know how else to love a father.

Sisi Li is an undergraduate student studying abroad at the University of Southern California. Besides writing and reading, she also enjoys dancing, afternoon walks, creating oddly specific Spotify playlists, and matcha cream puffs. Her work is forthcoming in Paper Crane Journal.