the office.

she detested the maneuvering and sidestepping that always accompanied
the crossing over the threshold, over into that place that stymied all the thrashings
of her elegantly violent soul. she was a satellite–she sat in the middle of the room
surrounded by glass walls and, when appropriate, pulled out clots of her blood
and tossed them into the wastebasket. no one saw her. but they watched her all
the time.

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one truth: a fragment

if i am able to tell one truth about myself it is this:
i never felt more complete than when i was completing
you, never wanted anything more than to see joy
suffuse your being with its luminous truth. these pale
words tell only the story of a moon that drifts beneath
your skin, milky radiance. what do i know. i am a bumbling
idiot, skin like a crocodile and lips bee-stung and rouged

another failure: a fragment

feels like another failure–

a boy who is unable to love runs his fingers through a girl’s hair–
it feels forced and they both know it, the touch that is a little too
deliberate, a little too rushed–bodies that should be opened up like
gifts are instead shook until what’s inside breaks. but he is already
broken. and she is too tired to explain. they lie like empty wrappers
on the floor, already passed over for newer, shinier objects.

birthday poems

i.
i live in the chronicles of tree rings
a forest all cut down with 29 markings.

ii.
(on this fourth day of the eighth month,
one day before some girl
heaved me out me of her onto the ashes
nearly three decades ago)
the lion burns in the sky–
i burn on the ground.

iii.
as my origins are speculative at best,
i sometimes wonder if i am purely korean
if being so yellow or so white is just a projection
i can remember being happy when i was twelve–
that makes me part cicada.

iv.
he says it’s a lie, that the mother bird
won’t take the baby bird back
once it’s been touched by human hands
i don’t google it, afraid of knowing
whether or not i can go home
after what human hands have done to me.

v.
my small pale life,
how i try so hard to be happy with it.

vi.
i simply stopped reading fiction
when i could no longer bear
the truths that lay within it–
in reality, it is so much easier to lie.

vii.
i am not a half looking for another half to make me whole.
i am looking to be a whole unto myself.
i need to remember this.

viii.
it does not matter if we are the makers of the dream–
we forget our dreams, and so we forget ourselves.
you find me in the morning, bruised and exorcised of sleep–
my lips are left somewhere between the scab of sky
and the dead buried beneath us–
the rest of my face lost somewhere between your palms.
we are subsumed in the grief of our aging bodies,
but are learning to laugh without the shame of youth.