Immaculate Conception

by Ling Ling Huang

There was a surprising solidity to her slight figure, as if she created her own gravitational force. Anyone who got too close was in danger of falling into her orbit. Or maybe I was just so insecure that anyone with a strong sense of identity could destabilize me.

It never occurred to me to be competitive or even jealous of men. For a long time, I’d worried that it was internalized misogyny before I realized that the only artists I respected enough to envy were women.

Everything I’ve achieved has been from trying to keep up with her, and I only know who I am in relation to her. What do I do if she’s really gone? Will I also cease to exist?

All my life, I’ve choked on the bitterness of having a mind that doesn’t feel equipped to do what my soul wants. I was driven by the distance between what I could imagine and what I could put on paper. Eventually, I realized that what I lack isn’t skill but imagination itself.

Being seen forces me to see myself, and I break under the weight of my gaze. The depravity of what I’ve done sinks in more, every day, until I have no choice but to accept myself as the monster I am.