By ELLA LIN
and she peels me
another mandarin. i imagine
we must look strange,
our mouths dripping juice like broken faucets
into the night. her black hair
falling further, with nothing below. the broken mirror hanging
above wet paint on bathroom walls. her face looking back into sharp glass. lips open wide
in search of a word that does not exist — grasping at the pieces, trying to hold on
gently. i watch her tenderly like a ritual. i study
her skin as if i’ve never known it before:
whole, beautiful, imperfect—
beneath my body it feels sticky. she licks
her fingers and spits out sugar, a honey wound. wǒ aì nǐ. i speak and go right through.
meng jia, don’t be afraid
if you look in the morning mirror
and realize you can’t see anybody looking back. you must understand:
the mandarin will not be here forever. like how the stars
turn white when you beg me
to tell you the truth and i fail
to speak — all my words falling back on citrus, your body
the space where my lips never part, the empty pit.
meng jia, are you listening? take your hands off the peel. i know you want
to pull it all apart, to taste something so real
that it makes you ache with beautiful intent—
but trust me. one day,
when we’re nothing but torn flesh, pulp pulled from rind,
when our eyes are closed and i can no longer feel you
i will tell you how i feel
shame. when she touches me
in the middle of the night
i want to look her in the eye
and tell her i’m flesh, her body peel
the two of us unraveling like blood oranges
our skins impermanent, leaving our bones
until we finally see each other, translucent white. our sweat crashing into hard truth. losing
our faces all over again. dear, what a shame.
but now she and i
are peeling a mandarin
in the unlit kitchen, our faces wet
from hunger. she feeds me
another piece and we dissolve
into beijing heat, hot hands finding the seeds
our mouths spat though open stars
those peeling places we never met
the pulp on the table drying,
already dried. she hasn’t tasted how sweet it is. how flesh becomes lies. how hard it is
to look her in the eye. how sweet. how terrifying. how real. the mandarin—
suddenly gone. and i taste mouthwash. her face, a shy beam of sun. ma, i was
born to eat words whole. orange fingers. the sound of the truth leaving her lips.
there is so much i want to tell you.
mandarin. citron confession stuck at the edge of my tongue. she once fed me a dream,
something quiet. we laid on our backs and waited for the moon to turn red. i tossed the peel
and felt it leave my hand. her skin touched mine. waiting like a whisper.
Writer | Ella Lin ’27 | elin27@amherst.edu
Editor | Sarah Wu ’25 | sdwu25@amherst.edu
Artist | Amaya Ranatungearachchi ’28 | aranatungearachchi28@amherst.edu