i knew i was queer

when i was watching mulan

the disney film


i was only eight


but i knew i was queer

when i fell in love with shang

and then i fell in love with mulan too


pink minced meat

sweating in the sink

quick, put it in the oven before it

starts to stink


let the house fill with it

seep into the walls

sink into the carpet



eat until you’re satisfied

eat until you’re numb inside




the strength of my own sexuality

frightens me


i become certain

that i’m addicted to porn

or sex


and then i wonder

after weighing up the evidence


if i was lied to


despite being undermined

trampled on

talked over


my sexuality rises

like steam


the heat of it

burns me


but it’s so malleable

and i can do so much with it


Love Letter

She walks like a woman who’s trained herself to take up space without being seen. Japanese-Chinese American, her first language at home was Mandarin, but her first word was English. A contradiction in all forms, boyishly beautiful and alone in a world large enough to swallow her whole.

she was desperate

and he was warm

she smelled like woven bamboo, washed cotton and blade oil

he tasted like sweat, coffee and stubble


in fogwell’s gym he danced around her

like a hummingbird

just out of her reach

in fogwell’s gym she went after him

like a feline — elegantly


she blooms like a lotus blossom

and he has the pleasure of watching it — of feeling it, feeling her

and she has the pleasure of not having to prove herself

of sparring someone who is her equal

braid stuck to the nape of her neck

his legs melting into the mat

she says

if you told me i could fly

i might just believe you


she hovers over the threshold to his bedroom a week later

hand in her pocket

thumbing the braille on his business cards

the way she thumbs his dimples


and when he tilts his head to kiss her

she tastes like new york city rain

and he kisses her in the same way that he welcomes the rain

with violent relief and a half-finished prayer
she can’t find her grip amongst the silk sheets until the length of her spine sticks to them and won’t let go
he maps out the shape of her with his fingertips, savouring her until she cries out in frustration


condensation on the windowsill,

made from a collection of breaths

she watches it drip


while she slides back into herself
the tender parts of her made tender to the touch

tender-touch, tender-walk, tender-talk
he asks her if she’s okay

and she says