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.