Durians by Aileen Chen (17, South Korea)

Durians are gross.
I would say to my mother,
“AIYA!臭死了*!”
with an ungrateful distaste for its rich odor.
Its golden lime spikes sat on our plate,
the tips overreaching the dividers of our fridge
and it just sat there,
spreading its reek of foreign perfume.
I just wanted to get rid of it

The durian aged into a custard hue,
the color of my skin
the color of the heritage that I rejected on my flesh.
Within the house of ochre seeds,
I was surrounded by a chamber of white.

I grew up
wishing the blonde on my skin was my hair
I grew up
bleaching the culture in my blood
I grew up
biting down on my mother tongue.

Why am I just a seedling?
To paint a canvas full of
privilege and wrong answers,
why do I have to be the white chamber?

Not all durians come in a plastic wrapping,

some spines are honing its own claw,
some carry a greater weight,

Reckon that durians comes in a variety,
people still box it into the same old packages.
Reckon that I too have my own variety,
people still box it into plastics,
thinking I’d eat my durians with chopsticks.

*臭死了(Chòu sǐle): its terribly stinky