This morning

My thoughts turned to rain

And fell from the sky

I didn't seek shelter

I didn't ask why

I just danced in the deluge

And tried not to cry

I am aware

That endings

Are new beginnings

And

When one door closes

Another one opens

But my thoughts

Were consumed

By moments with you

And the knowledge

Those moments

Are all past

I will always

Send love

In your general

Direction

But when this rain ends

So

Will my mourning

Say my ancestors were discovered.

Make me memorize it, 

Put it on a test. 

Tell me being mixed is sexy, you forget

it was first forced breeding. 

Teach me high art is naked white women, 

Notice I don’t look like them?

Persist I am lucky to be so tan. 

Call it a glow up. You’re selling a people. 

Is this rebranding?

Say my language is alluring. 

Learn a few words to use at a bar.

Progressive?

Habibi, mami, ebony princess. I find it racist, 

you call it misreading. 

Assume I’m after money, or status, or a green card.

You ask where I was born. Where I went to school.

Probe for an answer. 

Didn’t expect me to one up you? Now I’m disappointing? 

Treat me like an accessory,

Although this is my life; I’m not pretending.

Paraphrase a culture, you’re so good at it.

Wrap me in sticky rice, 

because you’ve made me your happy ending. 

#feminist #poem #feministpoetry #spilledink #bipoc #intersectional #minority #feminism #racism #poetry #culture #poetrybywomen #woman #slantrhyme #youngpoet

My heart is tied up in the umbilical cords of my country even though I am sixteen years old. There is this connection within us that is so spiritual, yet it should have been temporary. There is this sense of duty I feel, to honor her sacrifices in life, to live out the dreams that should have been pursued by her own hands.

Mine stretch out towards a different path, one that would be like taking all the diamonds in the world and crushing it into guilty dust right in front of her mines. The thought of the destruction of such an opportunity just splinters the heart all over.

I now hold the diamond in my hand, looking at its beauty under the glow of my word document, open to an assignment that I should have completed long ago. I see how easy it is to destroy something so precious, so incomprehensibly raw, but valuable.

The cord that ties me and my country together is not bound by copper and steel, does not conduct electrical desires and distractions at glance, but rather it is one made of tissues and veins, one of understanding that surpasses language. It is one of expression, of internal gratitude that surpasses language. One cannot simply walk away from a relationship like that.

Sometimes, it is better to walk away, however. Are we content with bearing the burden of responsibility if we receive love in return? Love, although a necessary emotion for survival, requires sacrifice, and some may consider this too much to care for.

It was a Monday when I felt all of this. I was mining coal out of sand and dust, looking for diamonds to make my motherland smile. After a while, her pull became too fierce, and I couldn’t dig for myself anymore.

That was when I cut the cord, and let go. I wished to be liberated by the freedoms of my wishes, rather than imprisoned by the effort it demands.

#lettinggo #patriotism #freedom #liberty

it grows in you like fresh moss,

tangled and chaotic until you forget

where your own roots begin and its end.

its leafy vines steal your water, but they grow so

lush and vibrant that you don’t realize.

not completely. you feel your body losing its lifeline,

but suddenly you're too tired to do anything about it.

some people only see some a bunch of moss,

but others, the ones closest to you,

implore you to manage the overgrowth.

but by now your heart is overtaken by the

invasive species, its gnarled vines twisted around your bones.

an invisible master leaving you no choice but quiet submission.

day by day, you let the dark moss consume you.

you become a mere host,

your only purpose to water the plants

until one day,

you just can’t anymore.

Your petals softly whisper

While your thorns scream in vain

For that is the language of the Flowers

And deception is its game

Like the sweet Oleander,

With its dainty petals looking friendly

For it wishes you to touch them

And prays your consequences will be deadly

Hear the Angel’s Trumpet,

As it plays lulling a tune

But be careful not to listen

For you’ll never awake beneath its moon

See the Hemlock,

With its complexion so fair

It beckons you closer with a secret

Telling you that it has some to spare

Hidden beneath its beauty

The culprit remains unnamed

For that is the language of the Flowers

And deception is its game

Through your eyes

of lapis lakes,

the window to your soul,

I break.

Shards of tears

illuminate:

the mourning

in your spirit’s wake.

I rake the grains

with gentle hands,

sifting words

to understand,

listening

as silence

spans

The distance from

your heart

to land.

I speak your hope

’til realized,

paint the pitch

with sunrise skies,

in Braille

I write

what beauty lies,

until

you see it

through your eyes.

The librarian squinted at me through the screen barrier and her dramatic cat-eye frames. It seemed as if she was looking through me rather than at me. I didn’t have a problem though. They say that anyone who smells like the bottle depot is invisible to the naked eye, but if we are looked at closely under a microscope, the beer belly would be seen before the cardboard sign asking for change.

This woman saw the beer belly too, “You know, that the McDonalds across the street is looking for some people.”

I flipped the page.

“Minimum wage is a start,” she pressed. “Maybe you could replace that old jacket of yours.” She paused. “The non-fiction section has a lot about work experience, may that will help you instead of-”

I shut the book. Fantasies aren’t for the homeless. Then again, nothing is.

Though there were moments of beauty, it felt as if something fell off a bookshelf inside me that I didn’t know how to put back in place. I tried to lift it, holding the spine with my dirt-encrusted hands, but the weathered pages tore off willingly and floated away like those pressing memories that can’t seem to be contained.

Who knew that remembering them only left paper cuts behind.

________________

Back then, I drew with pens.

They were the gel ones that would dispel of ink like a waterfall onto the page, and would sometimes seep through if the paper couldn’t handle its weight. My chubby fingers would hold these pens professionally, like Father at work, and I would calculate important values to add to the company’s profit just like he did. When he would come home, I would proudly show him our gross income, and he would respond with, “Wow, kid! That is a cool stick man!” My heart would swell inside my chest, and I would run to my room full of stuffed toys and tell every one of them that Father approved of the profit margin. They would clap and clap, and I felt like I had just been promoted to CEO right there.

My father was a man made of concrete and tar. He would sit in his office, and watch buildings being made with the money that he financed explode out of the soil. All the people knew him as the man of the market, well-known for his intelligence and crudeness with money. What he said was absolute, and no one could find faults in his work.

He would address everyone with a solid, crushing handshake, almost as hard as the stone centerpieces lining the shelves of his office. Father always knew who everyone was, and never kept a phonebook or contacts list. He would manually type up their numbers every time, and use their full name in conversation. His journals seemed as if someone printed out final drafts, rather than rough sketches.

But after a while, I would open his journals, and find puddles of black in between the lines. I saw pauses and scribbles etched out in the chaotic form in between the dollar signs and bold “bankrupt’s”. I saw circles, going round and round around figures with a strange subtraction sign in front of them. I saw the coffee-stained yellow pages drying and tearing right off.

Then, I saw pencils over my Father’s ear, rather than pens in his shirt pocket.

But my Father and I loved pencils because they didn’t leave mistakes to be seen. I would draw houses, and make measurements with these pencils. I enjoyed the ash of graphite splayed across the blank page. Father and I refused to use the black because it reminded us of our foolish past of pen. We found it unnerving that pen could never disappear, needing a layer of white-out to cover it. The page would then be littered with rectangular blotches of white, like bandaids over past mistakes. Whiteout made the past stand out, rather than disappear.

Father’s favorite was the erasers, “You can make the biggest mistake ever, and the eraser will swiftly make your mistakes disappear. A kind of reinvention, one might say.” Then he would go on and say the same thing that I have heard since birth. “One day, you will look out the window, and see the top of my building reaching for the stars. One day, when you are old enough, you will walk along avenues in the dark, and see a building with glass doors and gold inside. I yearn for the day that you will be with your friends in the city, and be able to say, ‘My father made that happen’.”

I always believed every word he told me, but I began to look at his plans, closer. I saw giant drawings of skyscrapers and measurements on our fridge door, but there was always a shadow behind the lines, of an eraser at work. I saw dollar signs scattered over the materials, but a small tear in the paper where the eraser had run numerous times. I saw his dream soon to be accomplished, but failure right behind it.

That was when my father came home with nothing but the dull smell of aftershave.

I would look out the window, and see his flat briefcase, and faded leather-bound journals, and my heart watched, forgetting about all the pens and pencils he used to bring home. My soul angered at the hostile emptiness I felt seeing our driveway without a slick car in front of it. He would then indifferently open the door, every day, and run into the attic, closed off from the rest of the family. He couldn’t embrace me anymore, so the greyscale of the streets did instead.

I stopped drawing for a long time after that. My heart yearned to touch a pen again, to calculate profit margins and measurements of the building soon to be made. But my grief mirrored my fathers, and settled into our DNA, and remained a part of us.

Every time I would pass under the attic during my visits, I could smell the must and mold of my father’s dreams. They were up there in the attic rotting with him, aching to be dusted off and used again. They sang like sopranos in a house of deafening silence. The melodies were so intense that I had no choice but to go up there and see them for myself.

That was the day I learned that my father a man made of clay and water.

Peeking into the room, I saw a mound of clay moving up and down in motion in between my father’s hands. They were smooth and flowing as his thumb pressed in and pushed masses towards the top. They were firm when he dug his nail into the structure and pulled out a defining line. They were unsure, as the shaking of his palm distorted some of the sides. His strange hands went on and on, and it was as if all the movements when they were together had no conclusion.

In the shape, I could see the building of his dreams. I could see the mistakes he’s made, that he covered up by watering the entire thing down and rebuilding it from the top. I could see him smoothing the cracks by rubbing them down as if he wanted to cover up is initial flaws, by drowning them over with the movements of his present.

My father longed to bury the past by reinventing his future. He threw away concrete and tar for the green embrace of mud.

My father never ended up financing the actual building, but the desire to was in the voices screaming out of the windows of his clay masterpieces. He would make tall towers, and said that my dolls could live and play inside. My dolls would explore his house and come out of his clay doors and whisper to me about all of the different rooms inside of the space, how each floor was full of offices with bustling people.

For a moment I believed it was true.

But then I looked around the attic and saw the cobwebs between the planks. I saw the flimsy stars, littered with cigar ash, and memorabilia. I saw the dusty trunk full of real plans and his past life. My soul leaned towards it and pulled my body right behind. I took my sweaty hand and slid it across to remove a streak of dust. The latch was rusty and broke in my hands when I tried to unlock it. It creaked as I opened the lid, and I realized it was the soprano voices that I heard so many times downstairs, while my father was locked up here.

My father’s yellow pages of dreams were messily scattered inside the box. I saw, the absolute of the pen, the security of the pencil and the haunting of the eraser’s ghost. The hope was still there among the rubble, and if my father wanted to, he could return to his former self. My imagination ran wild and intensely, as I ached for this thought. The desire rattled in its cage, and my father had the power to unlock it and set it free.

But I know better though, don’t I? The past has a clarity that I can no longer see in the present. My father’s dream is more dead than alive, more empty than fulfilled, more illusion than reality, yet my longing is as absolute as the pens I drew with not long ago.

_______________

After all these years of dried-out sharpies and foul cardboard from the meat shop, the pristine pages of my past are too far away to be of any comfort anymore.

I pop open a beer. I drink. I forget. I remember. I cry. I sleep. I wish. I starve. I drink.

All that is left is paper cuts.

This time, I drowned in the blood.

#fiction #monthXII

Try out Challenge

In the Han River Park

When the gentle wind blows

A colorful kite

I fly over that high blue sky

Am I no different from any young man?

Like a string of loose, tangled and broken kites

Sometimes blue youth fail to get a job

To drive the young people

Freely

Like a colorful kite flying high in the sky

Sometimes it bears success and fruit.

I don't know when my kite will be free

Endless Up Challenges Today

blue waterfalls,

wispy clouds,

hidden thorns,

misty eyes,

a thousand tries,

golden light,

silver moons,

empty space,

enclosed truths,

diamond tears,

rainbow pride,

crimson fire,

violet suns,

swirling currents,

broken threads,

brittle ice,

and waterfalls.

I can’t write

In darkness,

The absence of light.

I can’t think, breathe, or otherwise exist

In the places that the light has missed.

Too many terrors come flying together

Seeking to leave me scarred forever.

You mean you didn’t see her??

How could you not?!

She’s right over there!

No, she’s moved to another spot.

There! Can’t you see her,

Bent all twisted in the night?

Her hands are reaching for you!

Quickly, turn on the light!

Whew! That was a close one

You almost made the plummet

Into her land of twisted reality,

So I had to save you from it.

Be wary of the shadows!

The light cannot reach over there.

In ’tween spots, her fellows

Wait for the chance

Your guard is down

Then they advance

Creeping ever closer, but

You’re blissfully unaware.

But I see them!

I see them!

Huddled in the black

They’re waiting in the darkness

Every time you turn your back.

I see them! I see them!

Hiding in the halls.

Lurking in the closets,

Scraping at the walls.

Begging to be unleashed

The moment you look away.

They feed on your every agony,

Discomfort, and dismay.

In the darkness, they steep,

Growing ever stronger

Every time you fall asleep.

I don’t know why they all seem to have

this aversion to the light.

The brightness seems to drain them,

Yet recharging every night.

Oh God, you don’t believe me!

The insanity unleashed!

So I must face the night alone,

Every time you are asleep.

She’s back again, I see her,

Standing in the kitchen.

A light to obliterate the night,

But still, another vision:

She’s under the table now!

I see her watching me!

Glaring with the deadest eyes,

Dear God! How does she see?!

Those hands...aren’t human hands,

Knuckles cracking as she beckons.

No! Stay away from me!

The hours turned to seconds.

Hurry! I scurry to turn on all the lamps

Send her away before she gets closer.

I will not give her another chance.

An hour til dawn,

night is almost over.

Outside, I now can hear the

roaring booms of thunder.

The lightning sizzling against the sky,

The storm seeks to pull everything under.

The booms,

the rain pelting hard against the roof

She’s watching me from the hallway,

With a stare both hungry and aloof.

Then a grin so wide,

I can see her rotting teeth.

Why is she smiling

So wildly at me?

Our eyes meet,

I will not turn my back.

Still staring at me,

I hear a sudden crack.

Tears in my eyes as I realize

The power’s gone out and

everything’s gone black.

Too late to fight,

not enough light.

I feel her breath against my neck.

The darkness suffocating me,

tasting me,

Leaving me hollow, meeting with death.

Here you appear, to check on me

Armed with a flash of light.

“Why?” I say. I grin: “I’m fine!

Wow that beam is bright!”

I wrap my hand around your hand,

Kiss upon your head.

Knuckles cracking as I reach the door:

“Come on, let’s go to bed.”