Emma Lee and Alex Micho

Written by Alex Micho and illustration by Emma Lee

My Martian body is neon green in your bedroom lamp. 

            Your human breath makes me sweat. 

Idon’tfeellikeagirl 

Whatever that means

butIdon’tevenfeelhuman 

Whatever that means.

The alien in my chest ripens with age, like a wine made of sneaking suspicions, and 

                                                                                             the laughs of the girls who    

                                   whispered about me in middle school:

“She’slookingupyourskirt”

                                        “Howcanichangeinfrontofher” 

                                                                                      “Whyarehereyessoblank” 

                              “SHUTUPFREAKSHUTUPQUEERSHUTUP”

I learned to copy their speech patterns 

  Reported back to my alien master.

                            MYBODYISTENSE  INEEDTHEGASEOUSSTARS

Caring to the point where my belly button sinks into 

                                         my spine 

                               where dried blood sits under 

                                          My nose because I rub it too much (I cry like a kid Under the covers I'm scared of the monster) 

I don’t like being romantic– I crave being romantic.

                                                        teeth in

                                         my tongue till the pink thing gushes.

you were safe enough to divulge divine prophecies from the alien spaceship I came from. 

Youwantthisdon’tyou, yourfault, yourfault

                                                                                                I've been alien for a while now,   

                                                                                                   But a human forced his talons in me and 

they’ve been entrenched in 

                                        my collarbones ever since. 

                                                                          wheniseehim myfault myfault

There were blood stains on clean sheets, 

                   echoes of cruel rain, and 

                   rooftops with makeshift ashtrays; 

                  grave mistakes and tangents shared over hatchets rolling in the cemetery. 

Washed those clothes piling up in the corner of 

my bedroom, like ocean waves lapping at the beached antiques. 

                       They’re heaving, taking their final breaths and 

I stare into their eyes to watch life fade away. 

                 But they’re dead now. 

I don’t know why I was so comfortable with letting you see the mess 

                           I made, 

           the mess I am. 

                                       The sheets still are dirty, your smell lingers on 

                          my pillows.

I pretend it’s your chest underneath my cheek– 

                    your racing heart and fingers tapping 

                         my spine like a piano. 

             Open my heart?  

I would rather float back 

                  to my planet, (possibly by tractor beam)

I play all of your music to understand what lurks behind your delicately pointed face.

                                                                                         You could be marble, and if 

                                                                                         you are marble, 

I am a rusted dagger; maybe 

I’ll give you tetanus. 

                                                                                        My sculptor stares at 

                                                                                        my ribs, shaping my anatomy to 

less of a green alien that wanders 

amongst the general population but 

a person (?) whose limbs creak 

with old houses and 

false promises. 

             Call it alien abduction when 

I hold you so close 

I hear your heart pounding on the hollow of my sunburnt cheek. 

                  -BADUMBADUMBADUM-

We sit at an oak table across from one another…

                          wondering who’s going to say what first and 

                                                                          what needs to be said     

                  (iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou don’tknowmysecret don’tlooktooclosely)

I’m not on fire although my loins are sometimes.

I’m not on fire, but the house my spaceships crashed in is.

I’m not on fire, but there are third degree burns on my soft palate 

(from being a dumb teenager).

I’m not on fire, I’m not dying!

I’m not on fire, you are.