Angela Sim

what we saw in the 유리

let me tell you about
ninth grade when mirrors
were carved from air—

you’d get lost and carry
skin over your shoulder
like a sack, like a
briny stitch of ocean.

the last time my own skin unraveled,
a White girl had thrown ketchup packets
at my head,

what does that look like?
floating
amidst dreamcatchers between
the syllables of your name, losing
awareness
in stars & swirling projectors?

sometimes it’d remind
you of rain. Your
body transparent, your            sticky song, jirungyi.

Earth that grows at
night.

Angela Sim is a Korean American writer from Fairfax, Virginia with work upcoming in Eunoia Review and published in Long River Review, Virginia Literary Review and Voidspace. She attends George Mason University and is in her senior year of the school's BA English program (pursuing a concentration in creative writing).