Leave Her to Her Lake

She hops onto the next relationship searching for something more real than a conversation with herself. She’s not afraid of being alone. She’s afraid of what the little ponds in her mind whisper, that she’s forgotten. She lets men confuse her when she asks them, “What are we? And why can’t you love me?” Their responses turn into half thoughts like “oh darling. Darling. Look up at me. Come here,” and half kisses that taste like the mall’s orange chicken, deepening as if there’s more depth in a kiss than in words he doesn’t want to say. He knows she’s smart enough to protest or leave if he says any wrong thing, so he tugs her to him by the small of her back as if actions tell all. She allows him to lock her on his lap. At least here, in this swirl of unsatisfying answers where he emphasizes the beauty of “grayness”, she doesn’t feel forgotten, even as she’s slowly forgetting what fullness feels like when entangling with company that convinces her that “grayness” is her place in their life.

She stays here even as she hears echoes of every boy that’s ever given her everything, proving to her “grayness” doesn’t exist. But even then, his half kisses feel rich enough to make her feel wanted. And wanted means she isn’t forgotten.

She has dreams of addressing her own mediocrity, the mediocrity that led her here.

She has dreams of walking to the lake that is somewhere deep in her mind and nurturing it. Maybe nurturing this lake means leaving the lonely lies she’s told herself. Would she really continue to answer to this? Answer: “Is my own company so horrid I can’t entertain it properly? Wouldn’t I rather feel lost alone than to navigate with someone else’s compass?”

She is not Aching

Shadow Poem to “She Leaves Like”

She is not Aching

For home where snow does not fall and wind is not cruel,

Where branches of pink petals rain like jewels

And too many feet busy the stone streets searching

For pretty things, pretty people for whom she is not aching.

 

Here she is, standing still, her boat docking and rocking itself.

That small golden lantern dims like it is lost

As she plants weary feet on sinking black sand.

 

She is not aching for the warmth of seeping guava tea,

A mother that knew her at the first sight of unhappy,

Pink petals that fell on brown roofs, now burnt to black

Like the sand and silhouettes of mountains and temples

That encase her now, edges to the ink she lacks.

 

She may never fear temple-sized serpents

As much as she fears humans

who make shapes where they do not belong.

If they had left her and her people alone,

Then she would not be leaving and aching so alone.

 

It is not her human condition to chase an offender this far from home.

And so I became 11 again

Let's be angry somewhere about a Zed or a Master Yi being fed.

Fuck this. Throw a table. Throw a fit.

You and me, in Chuckett or ballroom-looking Lamont, you name it, stirring up the place with rowdy clicks from us spamming League abilities. Eventually, the whole place is empty and ours.

You and me splurging on open fridges of soymilk. I don't hate myself yet and we're all praying we don't have too much work to catch up for tomorrow.

I'm belting out to Celine Dion again. "It's All Coming Back to Me Now" and I swear I'm only passionate about winning the game. 

I had a thought in my head somewhere about how Taylor Swift ought to have an acoustic version of the Midnights album soon. And yup, lo and behold, she does. 

Definitely not wondering if this is the last game. It'd be a cold walk back. Or in the earlier days of my life, say 2 years ago. When this girl couldn't walk, it'd be too cold to have naked fingers holding crutch sticks against icy pavement. A miracle she made it home. A miracle she had the will to crutch up two flights of stairs like a young, hungry man. 

She once dated a young, hungry man. 

I definitely did once date a young, hungry man. It was lovely. He was the best.

At what though? I remember everything.

-32 degrees can definitely kill this woman. 

I will never shave my head. Ever. I could. And I'd look hot. But I will never shave my head. I'm too vain and in love with these locks of straight-down-aquatic-waterfall hair. Asian mermaid. Unwet.

I'm just sleepy. Sober. Not drunk. I write like cooling pastries about to be put back into the oven because they're not burnt enough.

Pastries are never crispy enough to me. 

I remember Natalie once bought us two boxes of pizza. Guess who finished it? All three of us. Raw. 

Remember it. Remember that it was real and how raw it was. Pizza on our fingers. Pizza scented oil on our keyboards after. I'd have to look for wipeys after.

It's 1:30 AM EST but it's 12:30 CST. There's a 7 page essay awaiting me to sniff, whiff, and piff.

Fiff. Giff. GIF.  It's JIFF not G-if. 

Lucy, I swear I know you're reading this and wondering if I'm having an asthma attack. I will definitely be responding to you in kind on Instagram. I can't believe I just leave messages untouched for weeks. 

I do that. It's so fucking bad that I do but I do that. I have no idea why I fear messaging people back. I'm literally a self-proclaimed poet and writer -- can't even write back. Why am I so silly? So damn silly. I don't get it. 

There's a man out there. One singular man who has bought every ticket to see me. And I thank you. I thank him. I thank you. Curtsy low for this one. Keeper.

I will never fuck up at anything again. I don't want to. I don't.

Don't.

Good night silly people. 

7 or 8 Things I Know About Her

7 or 8 Things I Know About Her

(a poem inspired by Michael Ondaatje's "7 or 8 Things I Know About Her" poem, written for class and myself)

The Dress

She has a sequined mini green dress she wears every other weekend. Sparkling grape juice in hand (or so she promises), she needs to jump to the beat in her boots to keep warm and feel like a mirror ball reflecting only green light. Like she’ll never have enough dance partners and as long as they’re her friends. A cute boy could dance next to her and is only allowed to hold her hands.

Ghost

11:30 PM when she was 13 and watching her favorite American detective show, she and I heard footsteps. We turned around and it was father in white pajamas crossing the shrine and opening the guest room, but not before turning around and telling us: “How many minutes left until you finish your show? It’s very late. Make sure you both sleep soon.” He disappears into the guest room, closes the door, and never leaves it.

We later finished the show. She had the urge to check the main bedroom, but father was in red pajamas next to mother. Fast asleep.

The Buddhist Fortune-Teller

The monk told her she’d get married at 29 or 30. Have one girl and one boy. Without her asking one question, he already knew what she wanted to know. That she needs to forget her ex and focus on being the sexy, juicy, independent woman that she is. She believes in all fortune-tellers who do it for free.

Shooting

Since 14, she’s always accepted the gun when father asked if she wanted to shoot a bullet one step away from their front porch. All the major holidays, it’s her hands that do it. She’d look past father and grin at me, checking if I’d want to hold the gun together. I always said no and covered my ears.

“More for me then,” while she grabs her thickest headphones and gloves, visibly shaking.

Dark

She is deathly afraid of the dark, racing to bed and diving under the thickest blanket, covering all her toes, once she’s turned off the last light. It always takes her longer to sleep if she sleeps alone. That’s why she sleeps with me, and I sleep with her.

Bike

She skinned raw four of her knuckles while biking to pick me up from the bus stop since father couldn’t make it. She blames it on how scary the big Texas trucks were behind her and to get off the road, she climbed a little ledge and toppled on her knuckles. She biked to me bleeding. Grimacing. Maybe with a bit of blame but smiling when she saw no one kidnapped me.

Fantasies

I think she wants a hot prince more than she wants me. Every time she’s infatuated with a new boy, I could only hold a conversation with her if it’s about her new guy or if I’m so sad I’m crying for her attention again. I wonder if I could hold her attention at all when we’re far apart. When our paths don’t meet anymore.

I hope she will always see me as her best friend.

Last Night

Two weeks since we last called so we had to call. College keeps her busy. I’m updating her how our dog and parents are doing. I’m telling her about how college has been for me. How it’s everything like she said it’d be. How right she is about guys talking too much in class, getting a bike for campus, and always keeping an umbrella in case it rained or was too sunny but also, yes, it seems all my best guy friends are gay for some reason.

“But I hope I’m still your best friend,” she says.

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My blog has become more of a poetry portfolio lately?? 

They're easy and beautiful to write. ^-^ But this poem, I wrote from my sister's perspective of me. I've never been the perfect sister but I'm so happy to call her mine. My little sister. <3 and of course, I added a tall tale or two for fun, but you'd never know which. :) 

Let's all make up tales of ourselves shall we? It's more fun that way.

Re-edited 10.20.22. because my professor was right -- I kept changing verb tenses too. :P

She Leaves Like

Below is a poem inspired by one of my favorite digital artists: @guweiz on instagram. According to my professor, very haunting and magical. Enjoy. :)

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She Leaves Like

Flurries of snow and fallen white-pink petals aching to rest

on stillness as a lone boat cuts the water.

A soft, cold wind of unknown voices brings all falling things,

blurring the unmade, daunting road before her.

Trees hug the road, the river, hiding beings,

and rooftops of temples darken the distance.

Humans make shapes wherever they go but snakes

disappear their shapes underwater.

Lucky her, this white-inducing night looks familiar.

Like legends of her birth right, her ancestors

Who trekked and fought and saved their world,

One night at a time or who disappeared forever.

 

The river serpent inquires: “dear, why are you alone?”

She is as far from cold as she is far from home.

She does not waver, does not answer.

Her lips pursed, fighting back all want to quiver.

The small golden lantern glows dimly,

“I may be alone, but I am not lonely.”

 

One river serpent slips away.

A Spirit Walk

Below is a sonnet I wrote for class. I'm definitely a noobie at this but it was really fun!

It's not perfect or edited yet haha but I really like it regardless. :)

A sonnet == 14 lines, with 10 syllables per line. 

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A Spirit Walk 

A purple moon climbs the mountain-lined sky

As cold pale feet stalk luminescent blades

Of a path raked through by all souls alike.

Once was bow and arrow aimed at wolf heart,

A quivering breath barked at to steady.

“All lives are yours to take, exert, and look!”

Once were books turned until soft skin met bone

A shadow waiting beyond candlelight.

Fire burns the wanderer from inside

Memories in flames, light alive tonight

What becomes of effort that is not yours?

Fear and freedom dance together in flames.

There, a path unparted, echoing sounds

Of spirits, all unknown, but one is yours. 

Below is an updated version of the poem. It has more clarity too ha. 11.12.22.

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A Spirit Walk 

A purple moon climbs the mountain-lined sky

As cold pale feet stalk luminescent blades

On a path raked through by all seeing souls.

War is not freedom but it makes him ache

To know when he will be the last soul it takes.

If there were eyes to close, then he would see

His own shaking breath struggling to steady.

Arrows fly and find unseen enemies.

Once were books turned until soft skin met bone

His father’s shadow beyond candlelight.

Fire burns the wanderer from inside.

There is no sleep here; what becomes of dreams

That one made to be loyal, brave, and true?

Do these dreams haunt you like spirits, warrior?

Snapping Turtle

Below is an erasure poem I made in class out of the Natural History of Western MA about Turtles. Super fun:)

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Snapping -- 

100 years

                        are vanishing 

                                                    Like snakes.

no teeth

                        home and         protection 

Box                                          leaving 

            no flesh visible.

absorbing 

                ponds or rivers,

the painted 

bodies 

Snap.