Number 27

I once longed to be the one sung about in love songs

A poet’s muse or the iridescent stranger from across the room

Authentically beautiful, protagonistic, self-reliant

One who does not write, but is written about–

To be a rainbow: the epitome of romanticized ordinaries

I wished to be an ephemeral spontaneous vessel of light

And then I grew up and learned that we only shine in youth

Oh, do I remember you.

You do not deserve the anonymity that by the grace of my fragility 

Protects your identity, though delicacy breaks ever so easily and

I am done playing the devil’s advocate

I wish your name nothing more than to rot in shame. 

Andrew. Andrew. 

Damn you.

Can I sit here?

Hey, sure what’s your name again?

Andrew. (chews loudly)

Every single other table is empty. Why are you sitting here?

Just to keep you company, wanna know something?

Actually, I have to go.

We have a fuck list.

I’m sorry what?

You know like where we rank girls on their asses and tits.

Oh shit.

…and you’re twenty-seven.

When I was little I laughed without realizing I was living

Frayed photograph albums tell me that I was genuinely untroubled

Bundled in a pink fuzzy zip-up, perched on my head a yellow bucket

A film camera print of my polka dot swimsuit flying high in the air

And my smile.

It’s broader than my dimples, powdered sugar on my cheeks

Was I truly so happy in a time that I can no longer remember?

If only I could go back if only I could uncross my legs, if only...

If only I wasn’t numbered

Number twenty-seven. 

No,

I am not your piece of meat.

Number twenty…objectification

Number…

would you have sexualized my kindergarten pigtails?

Number…

why are you looking at my body?

Sometimes I wonder how you remembered my number so effortlessly

Dare I say intentionally? 

Because I know that you will forget

You will forget 

the salty tears blurring my vision as I grappled the exit handle

You will forget 

that I could no longer keep food in my body for months later

You will forget 

my momentary silence, the surrender of my power

But this I promise you this

You will never take pride in how I speak your name:

Andrew. Andrew.

Once I longed to be the one written about in love songs

A poet’s muse or the iridescent stranger from across the room

Now I conceptualize the figments of my imagination recalling that

Ophelia sang 

As she slowly drowned

Icarus basked in freedom 

As his wings plunged down

If I am a rainbow, then my temporary brilliance has faded

So still I smile brightly because I know that 

I, too, was pure

If only for a photographed moment,

a fleeting memory long, long before 

Twenty-seven

Emelia Yang

(she / her)

Content warning: sexual harassment