spilled stories

panic attack

the air turns cement
 and set lungs stretch under
the weight. Throat
 coils, jumping off breathe like
suicide. And the universe
 smiles, sitting on your chest
and stealing all the beauty
 into its dark matter. Because
nothing matters now
nothing except remembering how
to breath

I now know where I stand with people
I may not like it
But it’s better than the frustration of trying to decode every text message
Sometimes you are people’s go to number for when they are bored
If you can handle being just that
Great, it’s still a solid bond
But there’s nothing wrong with leaving either
There is a breaking point in friendships too, an expiration date that sometimes comes too soon
But you just have to know where you stand with people
So you don’t set yourself on fire
For someone who won’t even reach for an extinguisher
—  "Some people would just watch you burn" // a story a day #105 by d.y.

You know that crippling fear you get when you know something bad is going to happen? That stomach drop, sweat break, vomit inducing fear you get when you realize everything you worked for is about to turn flip side up. That feeling you get when heartbreak and mindbreak and all other types of brokenness is about to enter. That chest gripping, heart wrenching, pain all over until I’m on the floor crying sort of fear.

You know that type of fear? That’s what I felt when I confessed to you. I knew it was a mistake.

—  A Story A Day #57 // -J.Kim. // 2/25/15

7. the sun has a fucking horrible taste in music

            The ex-boy and the ex-girl are back in the small Nissan on their way to deliver more pizzas.

            Their black rain clouds hover behind their heads in the back seat and are each looking out their respective windows, minding their own business, but never let themselves mentally drift too faraway from their owners.

            The ex-boy is still thinking about the lady who is using pizza as a murder weapon and, judging from the blank expression on her face, he can tell the ex-girl still is too.

            “Do you ever hate the sun?” the ex-girl suddenly asks. “Because I do,” she replies, not giving the ex-boy a chance to answer her. “The sun has given us too many chances. It has given us too many days. And what have we accomplished with them? Nothing but a loveless world filled with people who have poison hearts and who can turn anything into a murder weapon. Even something as wonderful and tasty as pizza. Like only people could turn pizza into a murder weapon. Hahaha, do you know what I mean? And there’s this line. And there always has been this line too. And I feel like I’m the only one who knows about it. And it shouldn’t be a secret line at all. Like everyone should know about it. Because it’s a horrible line. A line made out of selfishness and greed and hate and violence and all that other really bad stuff. And, as people, it’s been our only job to stay away from this line made out of selfishness and greed and hate and violence because if we ever were to cross this line then it becomes too late. We’ve gone into this horrible place and there’s no going back and there’s no saving us from destroying ourselves. And I’m afraid we’ve crossed it. And, if we haven’t, I feel like we’re dangerously close to crossing it… I dunno… I know I should be mad at people right now for being so unkind and uncaring and just plain cruel, and for making this all so much harder and miserable than it has to be, but I’m not. I’m mad at the sun. And I feel like I won’t be happy until the sun is unhappy. Until it retreats inside itself where it listens to a depressing iTunes playlist filled with Morrissey and The Cure and Hank Williams and, consequently, casting us all into a freezing darkness where we belong.”

           The ex-boy doesn’t reply. He stares ahead at the road. Into whatever uncertain future they’re hurtling themselves into. And even though he doesn’t know what they’re hurtling themselves into, he does know, almost for a fact as he glances up towards the sun, that today the sun is not unhappy.

           That the sun is actually very happy.

           That the sun is currently listening to an iTunes playlist full of upbeat, overly poppy, hollow songs about living your life and only living once and throwing your hands in the air and getting on the dance floor. All those kind of songs that the ex-boy hates.

           “The sun has a fucking horrible taste in music,” the ex-boy says.

            “It does. It really fucking does… Haha, I’m sorry… I’m sorry if I made you sad. Sometimes I get really sad and morbid. Hahaha, in case you couldn’t tell! …This is why I normally don’t talk to people. Usually just to flowers.”

            “You talk to flowers?” the ex-boy says.

            “Mm hmm. All the time, really. They’re lovely to talk to.”

            “What do the flowers say when you talk to them?” the ex-boy asks.

            The ex-girl smiles.

            “Oooooooh, ahhhhhhhhhh, OOOOOOOOOH!” the ex-girl says, her voice sounding so pretty and gentle and soft and delicate that the noises coming out of her mouth don’t appear to be coming from her and vocal chords but rather as if they are being blown out of a whistle constructed out of angel bone and clouds.

            The ex-boy has never talked to flowers before, and he has never had flowers talk to him, but, if he had had flowers talk to him, he would bet his life “Oooooooh, ahhhhhhhhhh, OOOOOOOOOH!” is exactly what they would say.

Pall Bearer's Lament

The snow froze their feet, as through stones they traverse
They watched the men meet at the back of the hearse

This angel on Earth had been the picture of grace
Sleeping now in her berth, reached her last resting place

The people stood still, moving just to wipe tears
Their minds forgot chill, lost instead to past years

There were rosy cheeked faces pressed to Mom’s loving hand
Young eyes viewing places they don’t understand

There were brothers and sisters wrapped together in grief
There were misses and misters in this humanity reef

Every eye in the gaggle viewed the morbid procession
As they stumble and straggle through nature’s aggression

The pall bearers struggle through snow in slick shoes
Their hearts have to juggle imbalance and blues

The honor they felt, their sad hearts put aside
The heartache they’re dealt, stayed by burden they guide

Not one person noticed the tall man in front
But the very next closest in height was a runt

He crossed the graves stooped to level the freight
Toward the people now grouped near his auntie’s estate

With compounded pain in his back and his breast
He struggled in vain to keep step with the rest

As they drew near the hole his focus was thrown
Seems his slick icy sole caught his dead uncle’s stone

As he stumbled head first o’er the Earth’s gaping maw
He knew he was cursed by Death’s bloody claw

They reached out to snatch him from the jaws of his fate
But just couldn’t catch him, they were seconds too late

The other five men forgot the handles they gripped
Amid clatter and din auntie’s casket had slipped

To the horrified crowd it all seemed quite surreal
But they’ll be secretly proud to repeat this dark spiel

A tale to be carried, for generations to flaunt
How a young man was buried with his favorite aunt

-write for the hell of it