Rituals and Burns

Today I went to Lee’s to buy myself coffee and a sandwich when I’m suddenly reminded that this was our ritual when we told ourselves we needed to get work done, me writing and you studying for school. I’m a creature of habit. Maybe that’s why getting Lee’s makes me happy –because I remember us going together, and it was one of those rare moments things felt OK. We had just finished working out together –we couldn’t afford much, but we afford a breakfast together. I thought at least things would be hopeful if I kept writing. Coffee was my fuel. Thank you for the coffee.

9/8 I burned my hand that I used to strike you. I burned it 6 times, until the pain became unbearable, and I can only imagine your pain was 10x more than my pain when I hurt you. 1, you loved me and for someone you loved to hurt you like so must have been unfathomable. 2, it must have really affected your self-worth. Thinking back, I had terrible self-esteem because I was hurt like so too. I used to think I was a good person, but I was merely a perpetuation of the anger and violence I learned from my parents. I don’t want to excuse myself when I say that. I just understand that that was where it came from. Interestingly, my mom had a similar, Buddhist ritual performed on her arm to cement her faith in the Buddha…  I pressed the light into my flesh and held it there until my skin seared and the fire was smothered. My hand is scarred, and I remember the pain. I want to remember the burning as the heat traveled through my skin and into my flesh. I want to see the scars. I never want to hurt someone I love again.  I’m sorry it took losing you to understand the gravity of my sins.

I hope you’re doing well. I hope you’re sleeping well. And I hope you protect yourself from terrible people like myself. I hope you find a love that won’t hurt you. I want to believe there is a form of love in which you don’t hurt yourself or your partner, but I’ve yet to see and experience anything like so. Anyways, like always, all the best to you.


To Whoever Finds the Bouquet I Left to my Lost Lover

I left the roses roadside.

We said bye many times,

this might be the last

I smell of sadness.


Let’s swim in the sea

Let’s dance on the grass

Let’s go where we’ve never gone,

Do what we’ve never done


I left my hopes roadside.

I drive back the time,

day and night

sleepless, you and I.


Let’s rewrite our time

Let’s laugh, you and I

I left a part of me roadside.


I am lost in LA. There are waves of happiness and sadness. But I meet an old friend. We smile, laugh, and talk about life. I meet a family and laugh with their kid. They seem relieved I gave him a toy to keep from being so antsy. I realize this poem makes it sound as if I’m in some stuffy room, bawling. On the contrary, I’m in a brightly-lit, spacious café. I’m with fellow writers. I imagine LA runs on the multitudes of cafes like some kind of mitochondria packed with sad, creative types. I was stopped on the street by a stranger wanting money. He pleads that he needs money to get home, to Thailand. I say no. He is angry, but he asks for a cigarette. I obliged. That I’m willing to share. “Fuck you,” he storms off smoking. I smile, “Have a nice day.” I think about you a lot. Writing helps me accept that I have no control whether you’ll come back. I gave us one final, impotent try that resulted in some kind of fuckery only I’m capable of. It was wrong on my part to try – I know, but I had to try. I wanted to be wrong… You’re right –I can’t make you come back because it’s not what you want. I miss you and I hope you sleep well and find some peace of mind soon.


Remember roses and beer on your table,

chicken salad in the late afternoon,

when I wrapped you from behind,

Christmas day, and I already gave you your gift,

those nights we were lost and we walked

until we found home

Remember the fights that broke us

Remember the scars I gave you

and how alone I felt with you

Remember that I left you first

Remember cuddles in the cold,

nights we drove away not a word to anyone

when I lost my mind and I saw you in lights

You were my angel, but I let you go

Remember how I ran to you

Remember how I ran from you.

Remember how you were never enough

Because I wasn’t enough.

Remember eggs in the morning,

And I drove you to the airport so you can say goodbye to him.

Remember how we screamed until we went insane and I miss you so much.

You told me to remember all the times I hurt you so I can understand how poorly I treated you. I can’t stop remembering. You tell me he treats you right, and I can only be happy for you. I did this to us. I want you to be happy. I don’t want to hurt you anymore.







I am a Ghost

There is a special place in the 626 where you can stand on a pinnacle of a suburban island and gaze around you an ocean of glimmering city lights. Listen to the static hum and lose yourself in your thoughts. Here, someone not much older than I committed suicide. I won’t go into the details of the suicide, but I’ve often felt the presence of his ghost. And I felt his pain too, for it was my pain.


I left home in search of something better. I’m not entirely certain how I became conscious that home was a bubble. I think it was because I always felt that I didn’t belong. This might partly be due to my parents’ and my generational, ideological differences. But there was also a cultural difference: one American, and one Taiwanese. These cultures were like great forces pulling me in different directions, and I think much of my life was misspent trying to choose a direction. There was this great riff between expectations and reality. Granted, I think that’s something every child experiences. However, my being raised in an Asian culture particularly put me and my parents at odds. You feel your parent’s expectation. They shape you. They become the ideal of what you should be. Simultaneously, you have your own ideas, your own personality, and your own dreams. In my case, they were extremely polarizing. I was nothing like my parent’s expectations. This was something I didn’t come in terms with. Instead, I walked the road of compromises, and it led me to hell. Monsters and shadows followed me. They whispered terrible ideas into my ears, and before long, I found myself on the ledge of a 30 floor building with one foot over the edge. I was a ghost as I walked through hell. I don’t know why I didn’t take the second step. Maybe I was a coward. Maybe I was hoping something better was waiting for me.


So I left home, knowing that I was an outsider. I could feel my world shifting. Things were falling apart. People I’ve known were being pulled in different directions. I was becoming someone different, someone I thought incompatible with the 626. I became a wanderer for some time. I packed my backpack so I could stay out late every night. I walked, I skateboarded, I took a plane across the ocean and briefly lived in Spain, I came back, I drove along the coast, and I saw some other states. And from my experience, I never found a place like the 626. It’s a cliché, but the 626 became this unchanging, endearing place. It was a place that I could never call my own, but I could no longer deny that it was very much a part of me.


Thinking back, I probably hoped for some sort of rebirth. I wanted change, the ultimate change, in which I would be freed from my pains. I thought of myself as a ghost that drifted from place to place, hoping that a place could restore me to some sort of whole. I did this with my relationships. I needed to be fulfilled by something, someone. That longing sent me spiraling into hell. I wanted some form of paradise so I could never hurt again. This was naïve.


I am a ghost. I accept that there is a deep sadness to me. I accept that I constitute polarizing forces and ideas sometimes, but so do many people.




IMG_2830I took the plunge. I remember falling. I wanted to keep my eyes opened until the Listerine-colored water engulfed me. It was a haze as the water rushed up my nose. A bitter taste of strong chlorine stayed on my tongue. I wish I was writing figuratively. For my 25th birthday, I flew up to San Francisco to see a childhood friend. We met in middle school, and for half of my life we’ve remained friends. I have this tendency of holding on to people. But I digress. There were so many moments I found picturesque throughout my travels. The best part, they were so mundane –nothing out of the ordinary, nothing spectacular. But it was oddly cinematic. That’s just my perspective. It was the middle of nowhere, on what seemed to be someone’s old farm. I can easily imagine one day a farmer got tired of the heat, and decided he wanted to create a water park in the middle of nowhere. And then he did. There was wake boarding, an artificial beach, and this obstacle course of floaties on this radioactive, murky water. Did I mention I’m terrified of water? I stood on the ledge, and I remember fuck it, just jump. I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere. This is coming from a person who is afraid of many things. The bubbles swirled about me. I couldn’t see, but this feeling of freedom overcame me. It was relief. It was excitement and I was clearly outside my comfort zone.


I took the last train to the airport. I sat in a shuttering cart alone for some time. This was after an unexpected detour. Passengers for the San Francisco Airport, please exit and transfer. Transfer? Transfer to what? Me and other disgruntled people are corralled down an escalator and a bus awaits us. A well-dressed blind man holds onto the arm of a construction worker. I’m thinking all of this is rather surreal. Somehow, I didn’t get off on the wrong stop. I wrote at the airport as I watched the zombies stumble from one end to the other. Eventually I joined them in their laps. It’s surprisingly cold in San Francisco in the middle of summer. The fluorescent lighting makes it hard to sleep, so I sleep with my hoodie backwards, covering my face.


We said goodbye so many times, and I think I’m doing all this to forget you. I’m sorry we had to end like this. I’m sorry I hurt you, and I know you’re sorry you hurt me. But this is the price for growth… I’m smoking seaside. I’m smoking on hilltops. And I’m smoking outside coffee shops.


It was a good trip.





My Findings in the Wrong Desert

I have this mental block recently. I thought I should go to the desert. That seemed symbolic of my barren imagination. I hoped to see something beautiful in that desolation, maybe find something hidden, secretive. I can’t say there wasn’t any beauty to my wandering around. There were moments oddly picturesque as I sat outside the shit hotel, smoking cigarettes. I remember the half-lit sign, the empty parking lot, the few cars that sped along that cracked highway because they knew nothing was worth staying for where I was at. We found chairs lined with plush outside, strewn about as if the previous tenants dragged them out and decided that the owners wouldn’t mind. Of course, they were right in their assumption because the chairs had a film of sand over them. I remember the grittiness that brushed against my bare back. The night had been quiet. There was this silence I had not been accustomed to. I remember thinking why would anyone want to live out there, and I still think that way; but to say the least, it was an experience I didn’t regret having. The moon had this iridescent glow and a few clouds sat strangely in the sky. The entire night had this feeling of unnaturalness to it. And it was pretty great because of that strange, alien feeling. Sure, it sucked staying there in the intense heat. But truthfully, I don’t remember the heat. I just remember those oddly picturesque images that I’ve burned into my memory. We chased the sunrise across this almost ghost town, and we found it in endless fields. Clearly, there was some sort of beauty there, for a couple was having their pregnancy photos taken there… This seems to be a theme with me; of making the best of a situation and coming short. We ultimately did not go to the actual national park, which had been the goal of this spontaneous trip. Thinking back, I should’ve fought for it. I mean I barely wanted to anymore… but I think I should’ve pushed myself to. After all why did we drive out there?


I just remember this terrible feeling of impotence; that I had this vision of what I wanted to experience, yet nothing came close to what I had envisioned. I don’t know where this pressure came from, or why I would subjugate myself to it. But there was this need, this hunger for something amazing or beautiful. Of course nothing of the sort happened. It was a mundane night. The shrooms did not work –our fault. I think what I learned from this is there are little moments of beauty scattered throughout any moment, and that I should probably plan better before I embark on one of my overly spontaneous trips. Lessons learned, and it was overall a new experience!


Our consciousness scrambled and blended together. I saw you in an electric, iridescent glow. I could see the currents running across your skin. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I saw your skin melt until you were bones. I saw you at your end. I wanted nothing more than to waste away my life with you. Only that wasn’t true.


I didn’t know you could lose yourself in another person. I thought we could lift each other up. We both tried until we went insane. We were each other’s black hole.


I left half of my mind with you. I don’t know why it has to be ultimatums. But it just does.  Life makes you sacrifice regardless. I just never thought we needed to sacrifice each other for happiness. Among my friends and family, you were the most precious. I never wanted to let you go. I blame romantic movies and pop culture romance. They make you think this magical person will come into your life and make you happy. But when I finally quit my whining, I know I’m to blame for being gullible. I learned too late my happiness is my own responsibility.


Becoming strangers scares me. It’s been some time since I last saw you, and I can’t say we’re the same people anymore. Part of me wishes to retreat to the past, but I know that’s my weaker half speaking. The past feels stable to say the least. It’s extreme to say but this felt cataclysmic. I lose myself in LA, and the surrealism eats at my sanity sometimes. Sometimes I have conversations that don’t feel real. I talked to this person for hours and I never got his name. It was all gibberish.


At the end of this, I just hope it was worth something, anything; I hope we grow in the ways we wanted.