The brittle bristles on my eyes
drop tiny leaves of greenflakes
in the morning of my ascension.
Call me yellow, I think to myself.
The bristles on my teeth shake-a-shake,
to and fro and around again,
in the mirror, and my reflection
is still blurry.
My teeth are a shade of not-quite-white,
and my yawns are uncensored,
for no one is around to hear.
I can echo any thoughts I want in my head.
Call me yellow.
And I suppose this is just another morning
I wake up Vietnamese.
