then, 

when i’m dead 

and lifeless 

and cold,

when i can kiss your acidic expectations away 

one by one,

when i can be free to clutch desperately 

at the scattered shards remaining of myself in an iron grip

a reminder that a girl lived

beneath the facade;

then,

when i’m

no longer plagued by distracting dreams

of another low-income job,

because writing won’t save me from starving,

because the letters “p” and “h” and “d” were carved onto my forehead as an infant

for aunts and uncles to gush and marvel at,

memories

of what i could’ve been 

and what i no longer could be;

then, 

when i’m no longer the disgrace of the family

the once-gifted child led astray,

no longer falling victim to your scathing, citrus-sharp comparisons

that fly by without warning in rapid-mouth streams of dart-like chinese

raging down so densely that there was no chance for me to even lift my head out of the water

and take a gasping breath;

then, 

when i’m no longer capable of disappointment or failure or life

eyes suspended like butterfly wings, unblinking

feathery lips pursed and frozen for eternity

never to talk back or flunk another test again

like that sarcophagus mold of your ideal daughter constantly looming overhead

so tight that it 

smothers;

would it be 

then,

when i’m dead 

and lifeless 

and cold

that i’d finally be enough for you?