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POETRY

left (right)
Isu Hong

at the crossroad,
she whispers, 
turn right. 

​

always, 
i turn left. 

​

she calls out to me, 
right. 

​

he calls out, 
left. 

​

he rules the world, 
he knows what is right. 
right? 
no. 
left. 

​

she is invisible. 
she is nothing. 

​

left, 
right, 
left, 
right.

​

at the crossroad, 
i choose. 
left. (right?)

 

purple?
Isu Hong

i nodded,

and your eyes turned to stars.

 

it wasn’t purple,

it was gray. 

 

now,

as i watch the sky,

where the gray before dawn softens to purple,

i can finally close my eyes.

 

it was purple. 

i just didn’t know it yet. 

"i."
Isu Hong

i daydream of carving into my flesh

and reaching in

to dig out my waterboarded heart--

--futile attempts, 

to drown out its steady rhythm. 

 

i daydream of autopsies 

that unveil

stories i forbid myself to decrypt,

yesterday

or tomorrow.

 

i am constantly consumed

by maggots 

that burrow into me,

a vast, absolute

emptiness.

 

i am constantly consumed

by the sight of her grotesque arms,

beckoning me. and i wonder 

if her and i

are soulmates. 

 

i continue to run

an endless marathon,

with broken legs.

finding solace within my exhaustion;

an anesthetic; 

a stimulant.

 

i continue to suffocate,

underground,

because i cannot tell

where the darkness ends

and the world begins.

depths
Isu Hong

there is a pond,

behind the church,

where little girls,

wave at their reflection.

 

there is a pond,

with a rock pathway,

where little girls,

splash their feet, laughing.

 

there is a pond,

surrounded by trees,

where little girls,

drag their fingers, creating lines.

 

there is a pond,

fringed with flowers,

where little girls,

wade in, waist deep.

 

there is a pond,

with murky depths,

where little girls,

slip beneath, unseen

 

there is a pond,

behind the church,

where little girls,

wave their last goodbyes. 

44
Isu Hong

remember how i used to beg?

do you?

do you remember when i cried,

for your embrace?

embrace me,

just like before.

before i understood.

 

i called out for you,

trembling, at twilight.

at twilight, you were asleep,

and maybe—

—maybe you couldn't hear me.

or maybe you could. 

 

will you ever hear my pleas,

Mom?

Eclipse
Isu Hong

The night you passed,

I stared at the aurora.

 

But I couldn’t tell--

was it you?

Or the city lights?

 

Your last goodbye,

a faint gray shimmer,

silver, 

like you were.

 

Now I pray for an eternal eclipse,

an everlasting shadow,

so I can wait,

to search the dark,

for another glimpse of you.

 

If you were the sky,

the air would be so clear,

that I’d see every star.

But I’ve wept my eyes dry,

and the light of the night,

scorches where sight once lingered.

 

I think of you always.

And when the world falls silent,

your absence consumes me,

as an eclipse,

devours the sun.

My grief is just love.

Only without you to turn to.

​

I died

when you did.

Remember my vow?

I promised you,

we would leave together.

Before that, it was sixteen. 

But you’ve left,

and I’m still standing here.

Next month I turn seventeen,

and I’m too much of a coward,

to keep my word.

I’m terrified.

What if there’s no afterlife?

No reunion?

What if, you become

a fading aurora,

lost in the city’s glare?

 

You exhaled alone,

patiently awaited, 

for our eyes to close. 

But you never got that luxury. 

So I won’t blame you

If you aren’t there,

when I exhale,

when my eyes freeze,

when I harden,

when the eclipse finally swallows me.

 

But please,

forgive me.

For not keeping our promise.

For focusing on the arbitrary assignments.

For my inability to hold you.

For learning to live without you.

For the wilting flowers next to your ashes.

Because I’d rather chase the darkness,

forever chasing; searching, 

than having never known

the light that is you.

Dissasociation
Isu Hong

Within terrifying screams, and thousands of sufferings, I exist. I sit and 

silently watch. Whose performance am I watching? How many people am I? 

Who am I? Who is she? I am me. She is I. It is too much responsibility to 

be myself. It is easier to be someone else. Selfish. Am I a solar system 

pretending to be a person? Or am I a moldy shell, of what appears to be one? 

Or maybe, all that I am, is the emptiness inside me. The emptiness that morphs 

into the urge. The urge I’ve been wrestling all my life, resisting its desire to 

end it. But I won’t. What is living without toying with life? To watch the fear 

in those pure eyes–the ones that slit my soul with every glance. To perform autopsies 

on her, and cut open her ugly organs in front of her. Once, I opened her real eyes, 

and when I dug them out, I realized, that her core was only real lies. Then, 

something horrifying occurred. Her lifeless body awoke. As we stared into 

each other's eyes, every breath synchronized. I; we reached out, but our 

fingertips could never meet–separated by a mirror. 

Do you understand the illness that is to be conscious? To be mortified to be 

made of flesh. To be humiliated by the coursing of blood. To be nauseated 

by existing. To have the disgusting need to be more than human. To experience

the gentle horror of analysis. Truly a deplorable lunacy, to doubt; to over-

scrutinize. And if you do not understand, dulce bellum inexpertis. (War is sweet 

to those who have never fought.)

The medication: to go mad. Separate the mind, the conscience, the soul, from 

the body. Comprehend that definition does not rely on what I am, but subsists in 

what I am not. Start revolutions within the simplicity of existence. End war. (It 

never does). Love violently. Speak through poetry. Emulate Dickinson. Choose to 

stay in the attic, unveiling the intricately woven brilliance of every breath. Avoid 

the gaze, hold no interest in locking eyes with your reflection. Never listen to the 

oxygen swirl into the deadly inside the lungs. Do not notice your fingertips, the 

ends of hair brushing against the shoulders, the feeling of the fabric on your thighs. 

Steady the body, stir the mind. 

Ars Poetic
Isu Hong

poetry.

a disgusting sewage of words

leaking onto a page. the intricately 

filtered thoughts of one, carving into

the mind. the insane mutterings of 

the clinically unwell. the textbook

for the isolated, 

inaccessible,

forgotten.

raw survival within despair, 

woven into the suffocating silver scarf,

by arachnids (architects among 

assassins).

deepest desires, evolving expression,

a celebrated chronic condition.

Blood Orange
Isu Hong

Every version of 

our story, 

ends with us

being slaughtered. 

And every time, 

you respond; 

 

Paint me a 

cathedral on 

The sun with your 

mangled flesh. 

War-ridden and 

soaked in scarlet. 

 

Now you cover 

your deepest mahogany

secrets, 

with citrus carvings,

staining trims.

The Witch's Rosary
Isu Hong

The witch’s rosary stays hidden, 

under her velvet neckline.  

 

What a scare

for a girl to stand

under the sky,

stuttering and shaking.

A scandal, with her

prophecies shushed and 

silenced.

Scorns 

searing saturations

into her skin.

“Silly girl!” they whisper,

simply seated on stools

with arms wrapped around

silver spooned stillborns.

 

Perpetually paralleled prophet girl,

gouging guts growing in diameter,

doomed, diseased, deranged.

 

Blessed by gods, you are, prophet girl.

Predicting parasocial warfare,

with no one to listen, as you yell at the sun.

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