that storm was no accident. I raised my hands
& the clouds tumbled in, lightning lashing
the sky’s proud prow
they’d chased me across wheat fields
& barren hills, my flame a wrongness reflected
in raised shovels burning eyes I got away
somehow, fistful of thunder scream of wind
they ran
but I was wet cold no one in town willing
to house a living curse so for the price
of a lie I slept
in the castle
in the morning the queen stripped me
of my silken nightgown traced the bruises
down my scapulae
proclaimed me a real girl over scrambled eggs
& scalding coffee the prince lay a veil
over my bare shoulders, said I love how much you
feel & he
touched me in soft places and that
was that for a while
I was happy enough with a full
belly happy enough with you in my arms
but if I’m telling you this story little one
let me also tell you something true
a storm churns inside your blood a wind
howls beneath your skin
& if they say you feel too little or too much
if they strip you of your silks & lick their lips
at your wounds if you realize this is not
the life you would choose for yourself
well go ahead raise your hands & call down
the deluge scorch your own ending
in the broken ground tell your own
sweet lies till their knees hitting the ground
are black
& blue
©2021 P. H. Low
P. H. Low is a Malaysian Chinese American writer with work published or forthcoming in Strange Horizons, Fantasy Magazine, Tor.com, Star*Line, and Abyss & Apex, among others. Low attended Viable Paradise in 2019 and is currently a first reader for khōréō, a speculative fiction magazine featuring immigrant and diaspora authors and stories.