rhythm of the line.

foolish to think, foolish

to feel this way. but
it's heavy on my chest, 
wrought-iron wrapped
around my ribs. strings 
of words like: 

sun-burnt clichés, I said

you inspire me, and

you believed it, kept it,

locked it tight

in your fist. but you

could have been anyone.

you said we were
just always, always 
and never. but what
boils beneath, like
blood below the skin so
thin. I know you think

I'm a fool.

Poetry I workshop exercise #3: Erotic poem

Those sleepless nights when I’ve left the window open,

the chirping crickets, the soundtrack to my thoughts.

I imagine what her soft dancer’s legs must feel like rubbing against yours.

You could never resist sideways glances at

Long, silk smooth legs of passing spring-time women,

you thought I never noticed.

Four a.m. settles in and the breeze dries the tears,

cold against my cheeks.

The picture I have painted is vivid in my mind of

your fingertips traveling along the contours of her back,

goose bumps rising on her skin in response to the

slight pressure of your touch.

It isn’t just my imagination.

I play this game of images not to torture myself,

but to remember why I left.

To remember that night I sat on your bed,

tracing the circular scar on my thigh,

and you, with wicked intentions, you said to me

another girl caught your eye.

Now when I start to miss your lips,

I see them whispering fantasies in her ear,

strings of crimson words trickling down her spine,

your bodies locked together, tangled in the sheets.

And I remember that I do not miss being her,

your mistress veiled behind the curtains.

Poetry I workshop exercise #2: Family Poem

Proverbs

Father sits across from me at the kitchen table,

his chin rests on his round fist,

small, black eyes roam the mahogany surface.

His index finger scribbles invisible ink that I cannot read,

could never read.

He looks up at me with arched eyebrows,

“I have something for you.”

Father brings back a white sheet of paper,

I stare at the black lines, the boxy shapes.

“Han Mun,” he explains,

“Proverbs,” he mutters.

I decipher the jumbled English translations:

The well where the taste of water is good dries first.

Sweet swallows. Bitter spits out.

Perhaps I am too ignorant to understand,

or perhaps these words are too foreign to my American ears.

I scratch at the white paper, frustrated by these

strange characters that tell stories of my entire culture.

But, father, you never taught me to read the strokes of your pen,

how can I learn these ancient sayings?

I sit at the table, tracing the lines, again and again.

“Someday, your children will learn them for you.” 

the months of us.

November. [is this love]
We saw one another everyday.
Four a.m. came too quickly, four a.m. was always when the conversation blurred, when the storytelling ended.
Autumn was spent in a Cadillac, hot breath painting steam on the glass. That question continuously unanswered, "do you love me yet?" I saw the smirk on his face before turning away from him. I couldn't say for sure. I couldn't let myself get away with it, with him.

December. [guilt]
I felt the jealousy swell, waves before crashing against the shore. I waited, pretending to watch T.V., while he locked himself in the bathroom, cell phone pressed against his ear. There, he played the role of the boyfriend-in-a-four-year-relationship, asking her how her day was, what did she have for dinner, will she visit her mother? My ears stopped straining to listen when the door unlocked, he stepped out, drifted over to me and placed firm hands on my thighs. The jealousy ebbed, undulated -- underneath the pressure of his fingertips, subsided. I've made this choice. It wasn't about her, I thought, it was about us.

January. [fades]
I never believed in ultimatums. I couldn't do that to him, but how long could we last? The guilt triumphed, and I told him to choose, to make a decision -- it was either me or her. The next day I took it back, said, begged, pleaded for him not to choose. The fear of losing us greater than anything else.
His lectures were a constant, I had to make changes in my life. I was wasting away the days, I only knew him. I needed to find a job, needed to apply to school, needed to find substance. Or perhaps, just a distraction from the lies.

February. [hallmark for lovers]
I didn't ask him to be my valentine; we hadn't even talked about it. I didn't -- and still don't -- believe in preserving one day dedicated to a significant other. Shouldn't all days be that way? But February 14th had come too quickly for us. He had his valentine: her, who kept his heart. I remember asking: "How is it possible for you to love two people at once?" I hadn't realized then (foolish girl) that he wasn't in love with me. Even though he ritualistically repeated how much he was, in fact, in love with me. He didn't mean it. If he had meant it, he wouldn't have been with her, and with me.

poetry is stupid.

I watch the shadows swim across the wall,
trapped in this little black hole where I picture
my fingers tracing the outline of your knuckles, your veins, your crimson lips.
I remember.
The night you screamed,
and shouted and cursed,
the windows cracked.
My back hit the wall and our faces,
sweat-glazed, inches apart,
heavy breathing, veins pumping, eyes wide and bloodshot,
red spider lines like cracks in the pavement.
Her scent
embedded, enmeshed, entangled with your own.
Her long dancer’s legs tangled in your sheets.
I walked away without a word.
You asked for one last night together,
our bodies stayed apart, shivering
and naked underneath a thin cotton sheet.
I imagined
her fingers intertwined with yours, my eyes open
and staring, counting the white tiles on the ceiling.
You could be anyone, because you are not mine.
You cradled my face in your warm hands,
and whispered,
‘I never promised you anything.’

backspace.

must.
delete.
everything.

midnight.
but i can't seem to gather the courage to delete my own words. even if they are just empty words now.
is it better to leave memories on the page, or tuck them away for safekeeping?

memorize.

I have stopped for just this moment. To remember, because my memory tends to fail me (as you know). I keep words as a record of sorts, a record of memories. I have not cried until now, until now when I have gone back to the beginning and re-read our conversations, my mind against your heart. You were always trying to teach me, to show me how to follow my heart. I can't say for sure that that lesson has run its course...

Can you remember the beginning of us? The words exchanged, the kisses stolen and given so freely, the caresses felt each second. We had discovered one another so quickly, so effortlessly. I never thought it would be me, falling in love with you, in such a short amount of time. I do remember that burning look in your eyes when I told you, you could be anyone. We had stood in the parking lot, as I tried to avoid eye contact with you. Tried to shrug you off, as if you were insignificant, as if you weren't the only person I wanted to be with in that moment, and in that moment, forever. And as we spent countless nights together, I slowly realized how wrong I was...you were more than anyone I had ever known.

I can't deal with the blame. This blame that I have placed on myself. That the deadened place we had ended up, was because of me. Ultimately because I had no control over myself, over the words I spat at you, over the way I purposely made you feel (or not feel). I feel even more lost and unsure of myself than I did when we began. You are still you, but I am not who I used to be, or who I imagined I would be.

I had said that you could be the worst, or the best thing that's happened to me. But those extremes are nonexistent now. I feel neither one nor the other. And it's because I have locked myself inside of myself, vowing to never let you back in. I shielded myself from your harsh words and steel gaze, crawling further away from you. And at the end, I had nothing left that was exposed, I had become caged. I forgot what it is to feel, and I still do not know.

Perhaps one day, we can sit and talk, reminiscing on beginnings and endings. I won't make you repeat yourself.