stairwell

where i come from nobody tells ghost stories unless they want to die. heat-hazy spirits cook you whole in barrack toilets. childhood death haunts adult bodies. line my white blood cells up at parade rest and let them tell you about mosquitos. one and a half flights of rubberwood stairs. i want to live. in the shower, humid beyond belief, my nose remembers crumpling like so much fuselage. bleeding fuel into the rainforest. my red passport follows me through the years. she draws the taniwha that possesses our landlord in sharpie and her ex’s teeth. cars honk for a dead woman in my carpal tunnel and their insincere sorrow rattles my nails. along the waterfront i grip my windbreaker—not the red one i wore when she didn’t catch me, but it doesn’t matter. i check the organ donor box. my shoulder scar bulges, overfull maggots in a cored-out joint that clicks like loose seatbelts. the lab recounts my testosterone and finds none at all. i pull myself up on my toddler toes. he throws her off the fire escape. i reach for the banister. i catch her. 

kī anthony (they/他) was born in singapore to indian & chinese parents whom they disappoint every day. they can be found at https://goblins.download or at home in west auckland, being joyfully mediocre at far too many hobbies.