I hate You All and I really do mean it. I am so tired of not getting to see the world Like You Do. So, can’t you just wake up tomorrow and walk into the kitchen 

open the cupboard, have one last look at your precious china teacups

and when you see me along that row — the wooden mug amongst the rest —

pick it up and drop it on the ground. I’ll scream very loud, but I promise you won’t hear a sound. Please throw me off the shelf so I don’t have to think about China.

Oh, I hate Them All and I really do mean it. I hate Them All for looking the same and for, all the same, looking nothing like me. I didn’t get my mother’s hair and the translation for my name gets lost on my grandmother’s tongue. 

I know You love museums. I know it makes you feel More Like Me. I’ve never written about this before, so I hope it makes You happy

to find “my culture” so beautiful — so beautiful that I now have to look at the exhibits of it and act like I care. Or act like it’s mine. My father is Catholic, you know. But I guess I’ll take credit for Their beautiful Buddhas. It’s not like they put Our sculptures behind glass, anyway.

I love the curtains in your room, but I bet they weren’t made by You. You stained my dress and I don’t want to wear it anymore. You ate my food and it doesn’t taste as good as it used to. I’m never putting my hair up in a bun again. I think you’d like it too much. Did you know They also have short eyelashes, just like me? Or do You never have to question yourself?

I’m sure You don’t. Well, there is no need to. Whenever I do, I blame it on the Silk Road.

I wish you could see how the blood flows through me — how it flows, only to be seen with You. I know You don’t like the cold, but can you at least appreciate that you were built for this weather? 

So, when you walk into the kitchen tomorrow morning 

Push me off Your Shelf and say You never liked me at all,

please.