THE CHRONICLES OF A SINNER

after ivi hua


you must be a perfect daughter, never get a yeast infection or add too much baking soda to cupcakes,	filial piety for your father, the ten commandments for your mother. but you are cosmic, bidding money on a losing game	carmine acne, every time you forget sunscreen you cry because you know scars will form atop mosaic of clots and clumps of bare flesh	embedded in your skin you see veins as squiggles of infestive worms, vermillion and jade on your wrist dripping in wine	you receive a red envelope embellished in ink calligraphy with “新年快樂, Evelyn!” and you wonder who Evelyn is.
dress in modesty and throw away your beloved Victoria’s Secret gemstone bra	you spent all your savings on to feel pretty, you must give savory dollar bills stained with Easter egg dye	to your mother, you are a gold-digging whore after her father’s billions, unable to say “i love you” like	love never existed, like my water never turned into wine to drown sorrows and how jesus never returned to preach	to clarify, scream that everytime i tried to write a book, stared directly at the sun, loved a girl
“lingerie = lust = exile,” so the clothes i buy are sluttier, the tears i spill saltier in hopes of losing	to your church, offer yourself at the altar, “i’m saving myself for marriage,” what you want to hear	how to achieve greatness	that everytime i touched myself i spat saccharine saliva in disgust, for to indulge in pleasure is to sin	i might as well be spitting in the face of god, the lion and the lamb, the witch and the wardrobe
weight, i despise my body but i treat it as charity, vow to chastity but kiss every cupid’s bow that plunges	“i am a daughter of god.” i love women more than the next one, but maybe it doesn’t matter to the next, how	“we are all a little bit in love with women. the difference is that we, as daughters of christ, suppress it.”	so you live your whole life unmarried, practicing celibacy that allows you to crinkle and die.	you see this woman in retrospect, you tell her you’re sorry and you love her, you should have taken care of her
inside me, if dying of my own accord is a sin, loving is a sin, i love to the fullest and spin Chappell on vinyl:	“could go to hell but we’ll probably be fine,” i will die eroded and erotic, rotting as a sinner into earth	i wish i could just let go.	to be yourself is key to success. to meet cute guys. can i be myself? can i not bear the cross on my shoulders?	“my body is a temple.” candied eyelids, adorned in honey, a princess is no more than a peasant dreaming.

by Amelia Chang

Note: This work is best viewed on a widescreen device.

after ivi hua


you must be a perfect daughter, never get a yeast infection or add too much baking soda to cupcakes,	filial piety for your father, the ten commandments for your mother. but you are cosmic, bidding money on a losing game	carmine acne, every time you forget sunscreen you cry because you know scars will form atop mosaic of clots and clumps of bare flesh	embedded in your skin you see veins as squiggles of infestive worms, vermillion and jade on your wrist dripping in wine	you receive a red envelope embellished in ink calligraphy with “新年快樂, Evelyn!” and you wonder who Evelyn is.
dress in modesty and throw away your beloved Victoria’s Secret gemstone bra	you spent all your savings on to feel pretty, you must give savory dollar bills stained with Easter egg dye	to your mother, you are a gold-digging whore after her father’s billions, unable to say “i love you” like	love never existed, like my water never turned into wine to drown sorrows and how jesus never returned to preach	to clarify, scream that everytime i tried to write a book, stared directly at the sun, loved a girl
“lingerie = lust = exile,” so the clothes i buy are sluttier, the tears i spill saltier in hopes of losing	to your church, offer yourself at the altar, “i’m saving myself for marriage,” what you want to hear	how to achieve greatness	that everytime i touched myself i spat saccharine saliva in disgust, for to indulge in pleasure is to sin	i might as well be spitting in the face of god, the lion and the lamb, the witch and the wardrobe
weight, i despise my body but i treat it as charity, vow to chastity but kiss every cupid’s bow that plunges	“i am a daughter of god.” i love women more than the next one, but maybe it doesn’t matter to the next, how	“we are all a little bit in love with women. the difference is that we, as daughters of christ, suppress it.”	so you live your whole life unmarried, practicing celibacy that allows you to crinkle and die.	you see this woman in retrospect, you tell her you’re sorry and you love her, you should have taken care of her
inside me, if dying of my own accord is a sin, loving is a sin, i love to the fullest and spin Chappell on vinyl:	“could go to hell but we’ll probably be fine,” i will die eroded and erotic, rotting as a sinner into earth	i wish i could just let go.	to be yourself is key to success. to meet cute guys. can i be myself? can i not bear the cross on my shoulders?	“my body is a temple.” candied eyelids, adorned in honey, a princess is no more than a peasant dreaming.

Amelia Chang is a Taiwanese American poet from Long Island, New York. She is the recipient of multiple Scholastic Awards and has work published/forthcoming in Marmalade Lit, Yin Literary, Rivener Lit, and elsewhere. She is the editor-in-chief and founder of the youth literary magazine Citron Lit, as well as the executive editor of The Bokeh Review. Amelia believes in the visceral power of words, and you can find her @a.melia.kat on Instagram.