rah bras? you say party! we say die!

without girls like you (me?)
nothing ever happens.
Ok!

An Unapologetic Laugh (on your behalf)

And isn't this awkward
for you at least.
I'm doing okay.
Yeah, you rejected me.
Stood up.
Cancelled.
Ignored.
Full out.
Had me sitting by the phone
clicking hopelessly at my empty inbox,
"No, you do not have mail,
your self-worth is deminishing,
have a nice night."

And now, I can see it in your eyes
how uncomfortable this makes you
and my hands are shaking
my pulse is racing
but it's not because
I wish you were into me
as much as I was into you
was being the operative word
but rather
because I have this unreal sense
of self-reflected anger
that I let myself be hurt by you
that I lost sleep
over the sound of your voice
the false need for your touch
and when our hands bumped
I didn't feel butterflies
I felt bats and moths
and the same anger as when
I first saw Salvador Dali's
"the creation of flying things"

And right now
I'm happy
I'm crushing
and feeling butterflies
just thinking about his eyes
his touch
and seeing you
helped me remember who I am.
Resilient.
Beautiful.
Defying.
And most of all.
I am uneffected.
Thanks for the reminder,
and the unapologetic laugh
at your receding hairline.

LUV,
LS

Women Under the Influence

I don't feel pretty right now.
or Cute. or Attractive. or Beautiful.
In fact, I feel quite the opposite.
For some reason, and I am not entirely sure why,
I feel dejected.
Unsure of what happens next.
Questioning who I am, what I do or
how I say your name.
And it's not entirely a bad feeling.
Maybe I'm just hungry
for something more.

Ms. R. Jeehye and I had breakfast
at Broadway Cafe.
I forgot to be vegan
and she forgot to be a bad friend
(I don't think she has ever been a bad friend, so easily forgotten,
being vegan was a little less easily misplaced)
and we decided half way through our pancakes
that we wouldn't talk about boys anymore
and instead giggle about
diaries and hashbrowns.

I bought a painting at St Vincent de Paul.
it's yellow and red, with sequins glued to the canvas,
and a big wooden cross hot glued
on top of a wave of sparkles.
It was $5.00.
It makes me feel alive.
I wonder why nobody signed it.
I have big plans of altering it.
Creating some kind of love child
with the previous artist.
In hopes of dropping an atom bomb
of splotchy ink
and irreversible personality flaws
and sign my name
under the black spot of their own.

and we watched the Baby Sitters Club
the TV show, not the movie
and drank cherry soda.
At someone else's house.
And I felt dirty
after applying for a credit card
and desperate for a cause
there is nothing like
being told your self-worth
is greater than your yearly income
and sometimes that's just not enough.

and I don't NEED YOU
TO MAKE ME FEEL BAD ABOUT
THINGS THAT ARE OUT OF MY CONTROL
AND don't come to me
ASKING FOR FORGIVENESS
WHEN THE GUTTER OF MY HEART
IS ALREADY spilling over,
edited and absolute
and I don't know why I care so much
about things that don't really effect
the gravitational pull of my everyday.

and it doesn't even make me feel better
to say that as loudly as I can
because dude, I got a lot of shit going on
and I work 60 hours a week
I have nightmares
and sweat myself to sleep.
while I think about his eyes
and the fool that I so easily became, become,
after hours
long after I should have known better
but didn't think twice.
and just because we're friends
for a long time
doesn't mean that I am who you want me to be.

Raychie is sleeping on the floor
and a rerun of the newshour
or something
with a woman wearing an out-of-date suit
is playing on TV
and I'm thinking about sending myself postcards
from places I've never been
share secret I've never said outloud
and find true love in a 39 cent stamp.

I am a woman under the influence
of sleep deprivation
of out of state work
of infatuation overload
of future-shock, flashing lights and a song I can't remember the name of
of teenage angst
of miles away
of lack of need
of situation confirmation and an empty inbox.

Love to the 12 degree,
beca.

Tracks and Trenches

My heart is a trainwreck.
The whistle blowing, screaming, conforming to the illusions of my imagination.
And I met you today & didn't really think much about our future.
I thought about my past.
About my tendency to fall into the canyons
of insecurity
and that sometimes
I forget how many band-aids cover up
the fleshy wounds
across my chest and under my skin.
I wonder if you can forgive
my skepticism.
And I'll call you in a couple of days.
Maybe.

And everytime I start to question my self worth, I peek under my shirt and catch a glance at my shoulder, and my heart fills with an undeniable warmth and I think of "Summertime."

Love ALWAYS,
yeo-dong-saeng!