Prose #1

I’ve been working on some short prose pieces recently. While my ability to write is significantly hindered by learning a second language at present (I oftentimes have to stop and think for a long time about the English word I want to use), it seems easier to write novella-like segments to communicate a story.

I kissed him. I did. I’m the girl who set the time bomb, watched it count down, and kept my promise to him, to be there. I picked up crushed flowers and treasured them, just like I did when I was only twelve years old and so small and vulnerable.
His crushed flowers.
They were dramatically more broken than I had realized, those eyes. When I looked into them I saw his father, aged and white headed, setting his lips together in a fine line of contemplation, and I knew I could never marry him. How could I look at that image every day? Yet I longed for the nostalgia of the past. Fall evenings, train whistles, spice cabinets, red covers. I wanted to dive into that safety, that simplicity. I wanted to dive into his bookshelf, the demarcation I allowed myself, just to tip toe into his mind and whisper into the darkness, “wake up, our childhood is calling us.”
I could give up my entire dream and settle for this simple life. I could trade my soul for his happiness. I could trade his happiness for security. I could just become a bookshelf.
But kisses do not turn you into bookshelves. Platonic love does not magically become star-crossed destiny. Scratch a scab, the sore doesn’t heal. My greatest, most empathetic heartache for all of his twisted brokenness could not put on the mask of romanticism and dance around us, for my heartache was too deep and too strong of a monster to conceal. His firm words were those of a brother, and my entire being which turned to trust those words, a sister. I could not chase the stars with the son of a memory.

So you were right. It was me.


Orange Juice

Came out sassier than I intended. Sounds like me at fifteen, so ok poem I guess. 

you said we’d still be here
when I’m twenty-five
asphalt and midnight
so where’s your orange juice
now, my boy?
will you stretch yourself
again across the sky
to reach for my eyes and
seek out my empty approval
in the warm summer night?

you won’t.

so why
should’ve I
held my tongue and carried on
with your childish ideals
that our platonic union
would last

Super Glue

I gave up on NaPoWriMo this year because I simply lack all form of inspiration. But today I wrote this kind of sad poem. Anyway. 

In the late summer
I saw you lying there
across from me
in the soft darkness
of a Seoul night,
you, a gray phantom
and I reached out to touch
your narrow back
covered in heather flecked slate,

but I shouldn’t,
you couldn’t love me
even now I am imagining
the starry eyed confession
you might give to me,
the sinful, volatile,
explosion that is my
over sexed and over thought
sense of self,
educated yet never studious
how could I?

I pull back the hand
which threatens to
collide and
crash and
super glue
the universes of my
perpetual coldness and
your invisible warmth,
if only I was still the girl
I was when I was
still me,
and she’s still not good enough
for you.

A Day in Summer, Many Years Ago

sweating bullets
eighty-five degrees
Bristol, Tennessee,
thighs searing on the
baby blue leather seats
the inside paint job is
soft, girlie pink,
but the outside finish
of Pa’s old truck is katydid green,
flying down the interstate
window vents cranked out,
my grandmother’s lead foot
the guide of this clunky Ford,
a sip of sticky Mellow Yellow
a glance back
through big square mirrors,
a ridiculous menagerie
of furniture in the bed,
tied haphazard
with rough, white ropes.


they are just whispers but
my heart is jumping in my chest
last night as the rain came down,
the elders gathered
at their television screens
and watched those whispers
travel through song
to heal a broken land,
today the sun shines bright
the birds are chirping and
the toast shop was busy,
when a group of college girls
said “oh, that’s last night’s thing”,
myself and the uncle waiting
for our toast smiled,
our hearts keep beating
our heads keep swimming
with that tiniest possibility-

Moderately Old

The black hole 
Of the 
Where you sleep

The night breeze 
Something sweet 
A peach tree” -Mitski, First Love/Late Spring

I miss you
the elegance of your fearless desperation,
launching yourself
keen to be the bullet
which buries itself
in the heart of your lover, he never denied
your subtle intensity
so you whisked yourself away on
the warm April nights, now the lilacs
bloom among the weeds of
your winter heart, but there is no one
to see their beauty
you are me
and I no longer remember
how to love April nights properly,
my soul sleeps in the dead lands
of T.S. Eliot, historical societies, and
my aching heart
only young when surrounded by
moderately old things.