in which the salt in these wounds does not stop burning
eight butterfly stitches
that rip down the side of my
jaw: the mulberry tree we
wrapped ribbons around and
my mother making a wound of
herself every sunset. all we
need is the implication of a
revolution, don’t you think? isn’t
it enough that the idea of home
being her hurts like a greenstick
fracture? we’re all bleeding
somewhere, the only difference
is when the wolves will come
for you. girl with her legs
spread; girl with her ribs spread.
the absence of light is nothing
new here. when a girl screams
in a forest with nobody to hear
her, did she really ever exist?
seance for my sorrows in every version of the story, girlhood means the absence of light. in every version of the story, it ends like this: girl as persephone, dragging in autumn by its heels — trying to find a way to tell her mother i love you in a way that does not sound like i’m sorry, trying to find a way to come home that does not mean wanting to die. april crashes against my throat again and again, an assurance and an exhalation. the ash tree from my childhood winds around each vertebrate of my spine. it says: the light is not gone yet, and we will keep running.
Eunice Kim is a Korean-American student currently living in Seoul where she writes poetry, wishes on falling stars and pretends to not procrastinate. Her preferred mediums of writing are poetry and short prose, which you can find more of @ivyburied on Tumblr.