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(Content warning for blood mention)

O-negative transfusions will not save your family 

as your Mother’s ribs sink into your bowl of phở 

and your Father’s congealed blood is barely reminiscent 

of the bowl of bún bò huế you once spilled
its steaming soup staining your skin in the process. 

it forms a pool around your head; 

a reminder that you’re Alive 

you’re Alive 

you’re Alive (still?) 

that same comforting reminder of your parents 

whose Love is expressed in ways that anger you, 

enough for your face to flush with embarrassment 

like the time when you were: 

1) packed an obnoxiously red lunchbox for school, the tips of your fingers fumbling the lid open. You were terrified of what people would say about your lunch. You tripped that day, and cold rice grains scattered across the concrete pavement, putting your shame up for public display. In your own misery, you wished to be different — to have scraped your knees and bled any other kind of blood than your own. 

2) clothed in stupidly colourful garments for Mufti Day. Your parents could not afford anything more than thrifted pink tutus and ugly blue denim jeans that had Girly Things (butterflies, flowers, hearts, etc.) embroidered all over the flared bottoms. You were terrified of what people would say about your fashion sense. You wished to be born different, your veins diluted by water; the genetic makeup smudging over your eyeliner. 

3) forced to smile at your cousin-who-stole-your-stuff’s birthday party for a photograph but you could not even muster your lips to crook upwards. Your parents singled you out for it and scolded you for being stubborn at your cousin-who-stole-your-stuff’s birthday. All you could think about was burning the party photos once you had your small, trembling hands on them. You wanted to scorch the relationship from your bloodline until there was nothing left but embers lifting from within your arteries, igniting your blistering desire for cold revenge. 

but look, 

i have my Mother’s kind eyes 

and i have my Father’s tall nose bridge, so 

i yearn to speak to them in my poorest attempt at Vietnamese: 

This blood that circulates within me has been contaminated, Mother. It is contaminated in the same way you believe tattoos to be dirty on the surface of human skin. But Mother, I will tattoo your full name on my left leg where your varicose veins decorate the backside of your knees. 

And, Father, please carry me back home. The skin of my hands and feet are seared from the sands in a recurring dream of a hot summer’s day. You can tell me about your stories about being a young man and I will sit still, carsick, listening intently, and wishing that I was born just like you. 

instead, i will stubbornly skip family dinners, 

fight myself over “never being enough” for Them, 

only to cauterise my wounds afterwards 

because i keep glorifying my spilt blood 

i’ll have to suck in the venom  

and spit it out 

and suck it in 

and spit it out 

in hopes that through the hallways of our home, 

the pathogens of my childishness are dispersed, 

begging to be forgiven in the form of left-out 

cold rice and braised eggs & pork. 

the plastic cling wrap is neatly placed over the bowls, 

and i will watch as my food curdles in the microwave 

in hopes that They will come home 

to ask me if i have eaten yet.