in the kitchen, the pot simmers,

tension bubbling in my chest,

noodles softening, absorbing warmth,

I reach for green onions—

their vibrance a sharp burst

against the pale strands, like

black polish on pale pink nails

chop, chop, chop—

each slice echoes the sting of silence,

my knife cutting bitterly through the stem,

where my heart wrestles with the weight

of a legacy steeped in expectation,

and a flavor they refuse to embrace

I mix them in, a splash of color,

the scent rising, a reminder

of my grandmother’s hands, deftly

folding jiaozi, weaving her life

between layers of dough, but in my mother’s eyes,

these onions are just distractions,

not the essence that makes the dish whole

“Why can’t you be normal?”

her words, as rough as overcooked rice,

a weight pressing down the lid of my pot

crushing my spirit under the guise of care,

where every smile feels rehearsed,

and my dishes feel bland to taste

yet I add the green onions,

their tangy scent spiraling up in steam,

a testament to all I am—

a blend of flavors, a multitude of tastes,

roots steeped in soil, reaching for sunlight,

a dish that brims with the unapologetic richness of both

though the table feels empty, with me alone

the air thick with unspoken words,

I savor this bowl, finding comfort

in the crunch, the truth that breaks in

like shoots in the heart of winter