If the world should end
If the world should
end−
and I, having never been in
love, survived
would my life be considered
a crime?
A Renaissance woman
(in all aspects,
except knowing when appropriate
to lie)
understands that all must be done
for the greater
good
that evil lies in the
self and not
the objects we
desire,
and in that spirit
files down every
post-apocalyptic callous.
Still, you
accuse me of selfishness
when I am trying my best
to be a
lady.
Fear not the fire and brimstone,
the fizzle, nor the bang−
in the end we are saved
by our idols
and I
have none.
Poster Child
Don’t you think it’s funny
how words collapse in a different con
text, how
thirteen can feel like thirty
when the local bars don’t card and
twenty-three can feel like two
when your parents are getting a divorce
I was never oppressed, I
the poster child of privilege
puking foie gras and truffles
into a porcelain throne to fit
into the clothes my mother
bought me
clothes
that I wore to America, where
the same people who told me
it was no longer
kosher to follow
the Ten Commandments
turned me into a minority
though I have yet to figure out
what that means
and even still,
this pain is nothing compared to
the pain of
starvation
even still,
my pain is nothing when it is
self-inflicted
the poster child of privilege
spitting bile into
a silver spoon.
Frankie Concepcion was born in the Philippines and now lives in Boston, MA. Her poetry has been published in Lucid Rhythms, The Fat City Review, Spectrum Magazine, and others. She is the current poetry editor of Side B Magazine, and an editor at Muni.com.ph.
–Art by Diana Cretu