Dear ABC, by Chia-Lun Chang

Dear ABC,

     I know I have to write about you. What else could the topic be whenever greeting another self. My tears would never walk into your eyes yet. Not too much drama. Terrible, I’ve known you from another side but not expecting you to teach me to talk like you. What’s the difference between cry and weep? I wish I could understand a little bit more in English.

     I lie down on the snow. White and pure, mingled with tears. My cap cannot cover the distance. I just let myself go. Not crying, shouting or screaming. Not even a sound. I suppress all of my feelings, fear, joy and expectation until you come back.

Are you coming back by the stairs? Floors? Ceiling?

     You showed up at the airport with your loose attitude. You were not there. You never even existed. History killed your authority, but there’s a possibility. It’s not a coincidence that you picked my luggage up, stared at me for a second and turned away, as if you could not smell this city. Endure.
Have you tried to figure out what happened? I can tell that you care about my existence by your body emotion and movement. Because I've ruined your lifelong funeral. You didn’t notice that you were breathing my air. The paralogue mistake causes us headaches.

     You listened, you listened to what I said. EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE. The morning breakfast that you made, told me I didn’t pretend well. I was a silly girl who kept smiling.

     This is not my song!

     I don’t know who this person is.

     I can’t write anymore.

     I want to make this story a good story because I care about you selfishly, I care about us.

     Save me, please.

     When you miss someone, you want to call him. And you kill your hands, destroy the thirsty desires from your forehead, and the wind blows your eyes away. What are you doing tonight? I sew my mouth with your voice.

     Abnormal, the conversation between you and me. But we laughed like there was no other, each other. We spin around now. There’s no way out. Cold, your hands are small and pale. You avoid this world, you are dying and you seem to enjoy the end of the world.

     Lighten up your moribund period.

     You were brave enough to talk like a sheep in two days. You said whatever you wanted. We danced in a free field. 18 years old. You were back on the riverside bench again. The road was shiny so we were back to skating.

     Your voice is carved on a tattoo. Pullover. A white rose drags you to the bed. You are here but where are you? Didn’t we practice obeying for years? I’m sure your parents taught you to be polite no matter how deep the pain was. If we be quiet, we can live through. But I don’t skate in the winter and nor talk like you.

     I wish nothing had happened.

     I hope you hate me.

     You have no idea where I came from.

     Don’t look away.

     Say it, intentionally hurt me with your unnoticeable expectation.

     Will it kill you physically to see me this way? It must be. Close your eyes and cover your ears. Walk away. Show a tiny anger.

Chia-Lun Chang

Chia-Lun Chang is the author of One Day We Become Whites (ND/SA, 2016), recent work appears in LARB, Bettering American Poetry Volume 2, PEN America, Hyperallergic, Literary Hub, Vinyl, 6x6 and Ocean State Review. A Jerome Hill Artist fellow, she has received support from Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, Tofte Lake Center and Poets House. Born and raised in New Taipei City, Taiwan, she lives in New York City where she is a chapbook editor at No, Dear Magazine. You can find her at

Latest posts by Chia-Lun Chang (see all)