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Daltokki’s Time-Lapse of a Noni

[00:00:00]
With enough work, I pass for beautiful. In the mirror, my talced face mouths:
—Daltokki: Aren’t most girls plain to start?
Her paws dusted white, still grinding—more, never stopping.

[03:00:00]
At the mall kiosk, a woman hands me a glossy flyer: BEFORE / AFTER, jawlines sharpened into
crescents.
Tape for monolids. Serums for pores.
I tried the tape at twelve—the strip held till lunch, then quit; my lid springing back.

[09:00:00]
Dust sugars my shins. Beside the path a ditch hosts a thin, brackish puddle—sap-sheen, salt,
mosquito eggs.
A fallen noni splits open—its perfume turning from sweet to rot.
I crush it under my heel. It gives too easily.

[18:00:00]
Rind loosens; pulp softens at the seam. Sweet sharpens toward vinegar.
—Daltokki: The nights are growing.
She taps the split with one nail. The seeds spill like micro-moons that won’t hold my face.

[24:00:00]
At the office kitchenette, someone’s eyes drop to my jaw, then bounce—as if they’ve touched a
hot pan.
I laugh too loud. I stir my drink; the ice chips itself.
Under fluorescent light, everyone looks half-worn, faces reeling at low tide.
For a second, the microwave clock reads [00:00:00] again.

[48:00:00]
—Daltokki: When a thing starts to turn, it keeps turning.
Perfume can’t outtalk fruit. Rouge dries to rust—pink rings in the sink.

[72:00:00]
—Daltokki: And for men?
Powder, injections, expectation—layers glazing the face until the iris dulls.
A man’s stubble bronzes to patina and they call it character.
They say keep shining. They call it upkeep.

[96:00:00]
My aunt slides me her scuffed brightening cream—label half-scraped off, warnings sharpied out.
Inevitable. I dab it under my eyes. My skin gulps it.
Outside the window, the sun presses down—too close, too hot.

[168:00:00]
Skin sloughs; seeds lacquer the dirt; a braid of ants goes through. Wind skims the trail.
The fruit collapses, shining.
On my cheek, the raw cake of last night’s trying: picked, painted, picked again—a shoreline
redrawn, then redrawn.

[240:00:00]
Only a wet circle where it lay; the smell thins.
—To hell with it, Daltokki.
I lift my chin at the mirror and watch myself do it—masked, then unmasked—
and in the dark Daltokki grinds rice for a change, slow as dark-moon work:
not youth, not purity—something to keep.
Outside, the path keeps going, lifting into the moonless night.

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Kimmy Chang is a Texas-based poet and computer-vision engineer. A 2026 Writers’ League of Texas Fellow and Pushcart Prize nominee, her work has appeared or is forthcoming in trampset, ONE ART, and Sky Island Journal, among others. Read more at https://www.kchang.xyz/.