Poetry by Christine Fojas

Not Yours Until

It’s not yours until you bleed

on it, until it tastes

the kiss of Vancouver rain

or stains with the salt

of your tears—or other

fluids—until you decide

it matches your aesthetic,

until they like it on Instagram,

post going viral, until you fold

the tip of a page or write

in the margins, until you cut

the tags and the 30 days pass,

no returns no exchanges,

until it starts to smell like you,

until you forget where

you got it from, until you rip it,

threads dangling,

and sew it back together,

until you gulp it down, tongue chasing

the last drop, until you sing

it out loud, until you remember

every line, or forget it ever

belonged to anyone else,

until the luster fades

and it starts to take on

the imprint of your fingers

and palms, until a part

breaks, until the labels

turn illegible in the wash,

until it follows the shape

of your bones, changes color,

until you stop loving it

and start treating it like air.

Christine Fojas (she/her) is a Filipino-Canadian hailing from Las Piñas City and currently living in Metro Vancouver. She has a BA in Comparative Literature from University of the Philippines and works as a library technician at Douglas College. She is on Twitter and Instagram as @chrisfojas.