“What are you afraid of? You are so beautiful, so cute, so lucky to be alive. Eighteen is too young to be so sad. You don't care about anyone as much as they will care about you. Cheer up, my friend. Relax. Take a breath. You are so many things. Would you care if I died? If I never came home? I could have left, too. I'm scared. You look more like your mother every day. I want you to fuck me. I want you to cum for me. Please. I'd really like to kiss you right now. But this is all just misplaced energy. I can't smoke a cigarette with you. Tell me if you stop loving me. You are not allowed to love. Stop thinking so much. Relax. Stop. Stop caring so much about things that don't matter. Words are not a career. Write the truth, but don't write your truth. How can one person be so destructive and so beautiful. How come you don't believe in Home? I want everything inside of you. I want you to give me your world. Sleep. No one will love you the way he loves you. No one wants to watch you burn. You selfish bitch. The world will never remember you. No matter how much you scream. No matter how much you curse. Fuck you. If getting over me is too hard you can always fuck the pain away. You are the biggest liar that I have ever met. Thank you for telling me the truth. I bought your book just to burn it. I know you were hurt. Why don't you cry? It's going to be okay. This is all just misplaced energy. ”
—“things people have said without thinking i’d remember,” Shinji Moon
“I'm not drunk yet, but we haven't spoken in months now and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry because, because well, you know exactly why. And, I guess I'm calling because only you understand how that would break my heart. ”
—Shinji Moon- If I Left You A Voicemail, This Would Be It“I almost miss the sound of your voice but know that the rain outside my window will suffice for tonight. I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry because, because — well, you know exactly why. And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand how that would break my heart. I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty. I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra. I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore; Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside. I’ve saved up enough money to disappear. I know you never thought the day would come. Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years since we last have spoken. Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs against each other’s. I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and how you would laugh, making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds like I was falling in love with language.”
—Shinji Moon, “If I Left You A Voicemail This Would Be It”
“I almost miss the sound of your voice, but know that the rain outside my window will suffice for tonight. I’m not drunk yet, but we haven’t spoken in months now and I wanted to tell you that someone threw a bouquet of roses in the trash bin on the corner of my street, and I wanted to cry because, because — well, you know exactly why. And, I guess I’m calling because only you understand how that would break my heart. I’m running out of things to say. My gas is running on empty. I’ve stopped stealing pages out of poetry books, but last week I pocketed a thesaurus and looked for synonyms for you but could only find rain and more rain and a thunderstorm that sounded like glass, like crystal, like an orchestra. I wanted to tell you that I’m not afraid of being moved anymore; Not afraid of this heart packing up its things and flying transcontinental with only a wool coat and a pocket with a folded-up address inside. I’ve saved up enough money to disappear. I know you never thought the day would come. Do you remember when we said goodbye and promised that it was only for then? It’s been years since I last saw you, years since we last have spoken. Sometimes, it gets quiet enough that I can hear the cicadas rubbing their thighs against each other’s. I’ve forgotten almost everything about you already, except that your skin was soft, like the belly of a peach, and how you would laugh, making fun of me for the way I pronounced almonds like I was falling in love with language.”
—Shinji MoonAn Ode to the Ice Cube You Slipped Into My Mouth
by Shinji Moon
The fireflies are hiding bombs beneath their wings
and everything we touch is breaking a sweat. Yes,
this May. Yes, to these Junes. The margarine spread thin
on your bagel. The way my fingertips always smell like
watermelon and limes, cigarettes and sex. Yes, to the
weeping glass cold against our foreheads. To these months
that pool wet against each other. The hot tongues of asphalt.
The curtains of rain you pull me through to kiss me square
on the lips. Yes. To the way we peel the blue husk of dusk
until our mouths are full of light. Full of star kernels. How we
believe, for this while, that we can wipe constellations
on the front of our pant legs without consequences,
drive through windy roads with a cold beer in our hands,
believing that nothing could kill us. Not even death.
So yes. To how our bodies are
bloated with water. How our laughter carries itself in the head of a
mosquito. To the way we make love with the windows open while the
lawnmowers crackle and shave the earth barbershop clean. Yes
yes. To how we scrape moonlight off the sidewalk with our shoes,
skip stones into one another’s mouths and imagine that this what
it must’ve been like to do so as a child. To the excuses we make
to shed our clothes and laugh, our dresses flung over backs of patio
furniture, diving into water with the lingerie we stole in Paris. How we let the
boys look. How we never let them touch. Yes, this rain. Your golden arms.
Yes, the way our stories can’t hurt us here. Not in this heat.
Not with all this slow. This after. This unfinished.
Not with the elephant in the room having been killed for its tusks.
No, for we can no longer look in the mirror without seeing another living thing
inside of us, eyes burning. An acid tongue. How it has whittled
our bones into flutes. How we can no longer sleep without hearing the slow
song of the dead trying to reclaim their stories. Using our bodies for
kindling. For killing. To test out what the children now call love.
