I don't know when the flowers first began to yellow,

But I know that now they are withered

Like my grandmother's fingertips.

I can recall in vivid amber the sudden

Sourness her springrolls would take on at school,

Boys asking if I ate mutts,

Some confused having all seen my white father.

I packed a fork in discretion,

And picked out the star anise I couldn't swallow,

Like Mum had never made me yellow,

Yellow, hollow.

I stared at the white boys winning the race

And pretended we were one and the same.

They never looked back at me except to laugh,

So I moulded myself from the bombshells they left behind.

I don't remember my Cantonese name,

Or my dead grandfather.

They called me a white guy in yellowface,

And I took it like a compliment.

The mirror whispered yellow...

_Yelled_ yellow.

Yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow, yellow

Till its meaning shallowed

And all I saw was nothing:

White.

I never felt Asian enough for the Chinese kids at school,

So I snapped my chopsticks in half

And chewed on splinters.

I erased the yellow from my color palette till

I started seeing red, and breathing blue.

Now my canvas is painted in layers of white,

And it's been years since I've felt sunlight,

But I guess I'm finally homesick.

The tiger in me says it's far too late

To turn back to the moon.

- 𝘗𝘰 𝘗𝘰, 𝘐 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘴.