Until Now
I had not known what it means
to throw things away
I think
this realization or rather this sinking feeling
comes only when you can
somewhat
walk on your own two feet
It is funny
and tragic
that something that at one point meant so much
could now be in consideration
for throwing away
It is funny
and tragic that
leather softens and fades and pills
paper goes from white to cream and rips
clothing smells like mothballs
At what point
do these changes remind you that
oh
it's time to throw this away?
It's been five years since 엄마
gave me this notebook
it is fraying and pages have been torn out
But I do not what to throw it away
Math Class
My head feels like a lead ball
or a brick
or like a liter of water is swimming
behind my eyes
with three goldfish to go with it
I can't focus; a boy with overgrown bangs
is sitting in front of me and
keeps smiling
Mister bends down and I see
the top of his balding scalp
Writer's Prayer
I have a confession.
please listen
when I’m
crying
bitter
red-faced
I find myself liking my crying bitter red-faced face. Because I write, enlightened with my verses and rhyme, my
alliteration
allusion
allegory
analogy
anastrophe
aphorism
archaism
asyndeton
and who knows what else.
My disaster porn I call writing and my fetishizing of sadness I call reflecting.
My sonnets of the old man and the sea, my dad, my mom, fire, oysters, bubblegum pink, mortals, immortals, gods, demigods, vampires, lovers, beasts, princesses, Ringo Starr, I’ve done it all.
I make suffering sensual and find charm amongst sadness and self-pity.
I pick at infected scabs that infect no longer
make a competition of who has the most scars, who’s cried the most tears, pasting bandages
over cuts that were never there
I lie, don’t I?
lie that the sky is falling when it really isn’t
what for?
head directly to the flame when I’m crying bitter red-faced
like some deranged moth
in hopes of finding catharsis in hopes that the flame will reflect back to me exactly who I am or whom I have become
what for?
So I promised myself
I won’t glamorize
won’t respond to curiosity with some evasive bullshit knowing it will prettily bathe me in the purple light of mystery
won’t stand for scars and their taffeta gleam
won’t sit on the edge of my balcony like some femme fatale
holding my dad’s juul in between my index and middle finger
pretending to smoke a cigarette
but don’t believe in me
because I’m scared what happens after I let go,
I don’t know what will be left,
if anything will be left at all
After all, clichés are my unfortunate favorite
I enjoy bathing in purple light even if
these violet delights have violet ends
what's in a promise anyway?
That which we call a lie by any other name would smell as sour.
17
She is a lion with cold feet.
it was late at night and I held on too tight. My fingers were nearly purple.
from an empty sea, a flash of red and green light. I asked if it was light from Wiltern Theater
She didn’t answer and I asked her ?why?
She said her feet were cold and that we should go back in.
She is a lion with cold feet.
ironic, I know
we were w i d e - e y e d girls and always right
No, she was a w i d e - e y e d girl and always right
the city our playground and its people just holographs.
She went with a roar and I
fell
back
into
place.
빨강 Red
We have way too many cigarettes in our house
My dad keeps them on hand always
His favorite brand is Marlboro
Marlboro Reds
Does she wear red?
Though he used to prefer Parliaments
That was before he found
Do you buy expensive watches for her because you can’t buy her rings?
Marlboro Red cigarettes
Attracting all the sad men in this world
Do you light her cigarette, dad?
with their reds and whites and blacks and golds
So ready to light up and smoke
TV, pig, frog
I eat
and eat
and eat to fill this black void inside of me
but it seems
that my void is not getting any smaller, as I had hoped
only I am growing bigger and bigger, physically I mean
I’m scared I’m just gonna be a frog with nothing but pickle friends
shit, I worry so much, sometimes I feel like I'm going to turn black and blue