No one wants to look harder at us. To imagine that we’re real people. Every day I clean up their brains and blood and I know that a white man coming for me isn’t an if, it’s a when. And the worst part is I know no one will find out who did it, no one will write about it in the newspapers, because who cares if another Chinese girl is dead—they’ll hear me screaming and just put in their headphones and keep walking. Even now, you want to walk away from us because it’s gross, because blood and guts make you uncomfortable. But it doesn’t matter if we’re uncomfortable—we don’t get to look away.
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