Rhythm of loneliness

I unlock the door and walk into my apartment.

Put down my purse and take off my rings and clothes, I do not bother hanging them in my closet.

I lie down (or lay myself down) on the living room floor,

my head and my body feels so heavy and distant

that I almost feel like I could convince myself that I'm dead.

But it doesn't go away.

I roll around-right, right, left, swing my legs and arms,

my eyelids up and down, atmosphere opens and closes

but it doesn't go away.

I walk over to the fridge and take out the orange juice and drink it right out of the carton.

A simple, mindless gesture becomes a

reassurance that I'm the only person who will ever drink this orange juice,

here we go again.

learning disability

My aunt quoted 'April is the cruelest month' at least nine times that spring.

Every time, I wanted to tell her

"Days like these,

no matter who you call

no matter what music you listen to

no matter what you read and talk about

you should know that it would only be like choking yourself even more, old lady."

Thirteen

When I first started painting my nails,

it used to remind me that I was only a little girl.

I would sit on our kitchen floor at night,

where my mom spent most of her time.

I wondered if that kitchen was like her doll house.

So many possibilities to organize things; by color, size and shape etc. 
Everything waiting patiently behind closed doors, waiting for that peek-a-boo.

It would be really easy to think that everything
-your kids, your marriage, your alarm clock that wakes you up so you can make breakfast for your husband before he goes to work-is all fake.

There was this huge wooden case with glass doors

where my mom put her teacups she collected.

It might as well be called a sarcophagus.

I want to be like

warm palms

touch touch touch

high tide

your eyes were always moist and wet.

when I used to look at them I saw snow jumping into the winter beach,

I could almost hear the waves splashing.

some nights, I swam in that water, other nights, it drowned me, over and over.

night cap

tonight

I was looking in the mirror for a long time

listening to the tv

fingertips swimming in the waves of the time

I spent remembering things

like when I was an insomniac at the age of 5

I woke my parents up every single night

one night my dad locked me in the bathroom

I told him that I would rather die

I listened to him cry outside

such a lullaby

oh that feeling of victory

and one evening

so, I chopped up some onions

of course I remembered couple of onion chopping tricks

but it wouldn't have helped

believe me

it wouldn't have helped

but at least I had an excuse

, when I was light watching

in her bedroom

she couldn't do anything knowing that the time is passing by regardless of what we are doing

things went out of control for her

for days she sat in her room with her lights off, light watching,

time watching,

staring right at her enemy's eyes,

defeated

I couldn't think of anything good to convince her,

so I just stopped thinking

sometimes you just have to stop thinking to stay alive

what was worse than the light

were shadows, busy busy busy

so I stood up and handed myself a pair of scissors

sharp enough, I thought.

my fingers danced back and forth, orbits

and what was part of me was not mine anymore

so easy so graceful

loss can be

sometimes

note to self

The night is short. Walk, lady!

I have hands that smell like coffee,

gravity that is not strong enough to make walking too painful,

warm things or colder things to think about on this cold night,

and somewhere to be, or somewhere not to be!

3. freedom from want - Roosevelt

It's not going to be okay.

But I will live.

Because no matter how tragic the situation might be,

we are always ready to cry.

I'm giving up

LAUGHING & CRYING & WRITING & WAITING

I want

WORDS FOR EVERYTHING

come to my afterlife party

I live my life at a funeral,

writing obituaries when the death(s) is distant enough for me to talk about without crying.

I am always in mourning for recent and immediate losses while I am slowly shedding my parts away. One day I will be completely decomposed, and I'll only leave my obituary written by myself behind.

Hyuna Kim, 'dead' was a present continuous verb to her.

WHOA I just re-read this and GOD I am so melodramatic! I wish I was as half as depressed as I say I am.

sometimes I think only for you

Teakettle was sitting on the stove, holding nothing but its emptiness. The red and room temperature emptiness, the kitchen, my mom's fragile body swifting, feet and flour swifting, the hollow teakettle sitting on the stove, carrying nothing but what it should, not even a teaspoon of the mysterious air of the house when dad is no longer here and mom became glass, ready to be broken or break itself and move onto a same density, blood. Red and empty.

I thought you knew that I was staring at the teakettle.

fourth night

Loneliness is fair.

Everyone is awfully lonely.

In that, I feel a little less lonely.

We are all in this together.

Josee

Josee, the tiger and the fish is the closest movie to my heart. I feel like I'm both Josee and Tsuneo at the same time. Ever since I saw this movie 4 years ago, this is the only representation of love that I can completely and fully relate to. It makes me feel okay about being in love and falling out of love. How to appreciate, how to grieve, and how to live. This is my favorite part of the movie, I hope you guys enjoy it.

kitchen

The kitchen had an unpleasant smell-as if someone had been simmering desperation until it was thicken up into a bittersweet syrup. It reminded me of late spring, bloody streets covered in brown and muddy magnolia pedals, crushed and stepped on mercilessly. But it didn't take me too long to get used to it.

So I sat on the kitchen floor next to a chair made of four crackers. Small and pretty, but a chair that noone can sit on. I felt like a goldfish in a small bucket waiting for a winner to scoop me up with a tiny paper net at a night festival, my eyes fixed on my sides, not even allowing a glimpse of the night sky. There I was, waiting for some assurance that there is an exit. A ghost would have been fine. But only the refrigerator made a noise making ice.

Dad

My dad is a great story teller.

One time, he told to me about his ex girlfriends, and how one of them wrote the worst love letters, and that he couldn't stand being with her anymore. I told him that mom isn't a good writer either, and he said, that was okay, because she never attempted to write him letters to begin with.

When I was in middle school, I wrote a poem about my dad. My dad cried over it, which wasn't a big deal, because he is a man who is not afraid of crying, but still, I felt like that was a sign of approval.

I want to write good stories and poems with easy and honest words.

Virginia Woolf and I have something in common. We are addicted to tragedy.

Because I like reading sad stories in the bath tub,

knowing that someone could easily pull three or four yards of rosy red silk out of their wrist.

But she was an observer who writes, I am an observer who reads.

I don't have pocketful of heavy stones pulling me down with ever lasting love,

or a nice scenery -like a bridge where little boys stop by to look at the fish- that I would like to look from below for hours and days and years,

so I keep on reading, my eyes and hands still dry.

When the water gets too hot for me, I do not hesitate,

I drain all the water out,

I watch my own body -once drowned- resurface, clean and safe.

I return to bed and set my alarm because

I must wake up,

from dream of endless kisses or dream of people I admire exposing my fraudulence.

Because she was a dreamer whose eyes forever shut

and I am a dreamer who blinks.

to a daffodil

I had this poem written on my desk my freshman year in highschool. My teacher made me erase it, saying "no wonder you're such a depressing little girl." I tried to translate, but I want to respect the words, it's so strange how languages carry different weight. I've been reading a lot of Korean poems.

정호승-「수선화에게」

울지 마라

외로우니까 사람이다

살아간다는 것은 외로움을 견디는 일이다

공연히 오지 않는 전화를 기다리지 마라

눈이 오면 눈길을 걸어가고

비가 오면 빗길을 걸어가라

갈대숲에서 가슴검은도요새도 너를 보고 있다

가끔은 하느님도 외로워서 눈물을 흘리신다

새들이 나뭇가지에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이고

네가 물가에 앉아 있는 것도 외로움 때문이다

산 그림자도 외로워서 하루에 한 번씩 마을로 내려온다

종소리도 외로워서 울려퍼진다

first cry

When I was born, you were still hungover,

There was no this and that to me,

there was no seperation between me and the universe,

there was no you and I, so I stomached your hangover myself,

drinking good beer and listening to good music did not mean anything,

temptation is not even a bother, and your clever fingers meticulously reading the surface of a girl's skin

but they are not clever enough to read her nights alone,

when she lies on her stomach and listen to her parents talk and cars rushing by outside

and you writing your will with borrowed words, and you humming the songs of others, thinking that that is enough

I suffer your lightness with the universe's weight,

I was born to save you, I was born to be you, but soon I'll be old enough to be your lover,

and we will still be hungover together.

Ringo

thank you Regina Spektor,

they say depression is the greatest source of inspiration

and I'm getting ready for winter,

and I don't know if I should start packing or throw things away,

sometimes I wonder if I want to be

Boys with dirty socks, who grow their nails to play the guitar, and write songs about

restless radio stations, the endless loop of sound waves, it's sad, so why not?

or

Women,

who can't think of anything else but to cry, and drink to cry some more.

soy

when you miss someone

your sad ears open,

so I listen. and I write and write.