Poetry

I just wanted to tell you

you’re something short of extraordinary.

Which isn’t to say you bore me,

or I don’t put stock into what you’ve been through.

But if you demand I stop reaching

for a world you don’t recognize,

these people you’ve never failed to scrutinize

will rise beyond just bitching

for the rights you were born into.

Our arms may hold no bullets

but they show constellations of scars

built by bending and scratching at these bars

of this cage built by church pew pamphlets.

Our hands grip onto the light we were promised

at the end of a long, dim tunnel 

built with bleeding, thrown bricks and torn up flannels

by broken lips, chapped, bleeding, grinning and bruised.

And so what if that sunlight burns?

Those burns heal better than the wounds

you left, just ten years old telling me

to pick up reality and ignore that favored fantasy

of a world built on letting wildflowers bloom,

just because you were taught to cut them down.

We will not fall prey to the lie of tradition

so just get ready for a new edition

of the generation refusing to die drowning

in these poisoned waters we inherited.

You’re welcome to join us.

His eyes crack open and so do hers, but 

they see a different world.

He sees a world full of opportunity

if only people would only look past his skin color. 

She sees a world full of wasted potential 

if only her gender was irrelevant in relation to her capability.

They walk down the street and

try to avoid the stares. 

"I am myself, not an alien."

She is not a terrorist. She just wants her 

groceries.

The food his mother makes does not

smell bad. It is not 

something to hide out of 

embarrassment. 

"Mom, is my language funny?"

Sometimes, 

She cannot leave her bed. The world is full of 

danger. It is terrifying. 

But others only mock her for it. they are angry.

Make no effort to understand. 

"I really am trying. I promise!"

"Then just be happy!"

"It's not that simple." is met with scoffs.

He is not too young. She is not too old. 

They are capable.

Don't discount that.

Happy and content with the world, it is sad

she does not know they mock her.

He struggles with communication. People

Have punched, attacked, and berated him.

And he did not know why, but

He knew he was different.

They came here for safety. 

They came here for a fresh start.

They came here to save their children. Their future.

“Please try to understand. I am no less of a human than you.”

Please be kind.

i told you to stop. 

you decided that was not good enough for you. 

“c'mon. just one more time.”

that was what you said the 6th time

and the 7th

and 8th

and so on. 

so i allowed myself to be a doll. 

conform to your crude desires. 

my body was your toy, the type 

a child would toss around and forget later on. 

you are sick.

Bits of a soul pour out, dripping down her arm.

There’s a crack in the stronghold. A crack

where bits of a heart burst,

and there is pain.



“It’s alright,” they say, as they

write on their clipboards, scrawling

notable issues.

“To feel this way.”



Doubt invades the mindscape, fleeting thoughts race through.

A traffic jam. It’s unnoticed by all.

“It’s natural to feel this way.”

More of the soul escapes the crack.

Soon there’s another, another, and another.

The stronghold collapses.

A wonder—how many times must I rebuild again?

Add more repairs and augmentations?



An earthquake strikes again.



If only it were this simple. Could I, should I, demolish myself?

I would empty the stronghold. Let

my soul go, flooding its surroundings.



The last crack.



If only it were this simple.



As simple as a papercut.

Editor's Note: This poem was written and printed in our physical book with a unique stanza layout, which we unfortunately could not reproduce with our website's rich text editor. If you wish to read this poem in its intended format, please inquire about a print copy of Tahoma West Volume 25 at our office in MAT 151, or view a PDF of the poem once it becomes available on the Library Digital Commons.

Keep afloat, They say. It’s also known as:

Stay up. Survive. Get through this day.  One, one step at a time. Come, now. Good.

I want to live. Why can’t I?

She screamed. Agonized shrieks fill her head.

“No. Stay down. Drown. You deserve this. Why are you alive again? I don’t remember.”



That’s right. Why am I alive?

For happiness? That continues to elude me. I’m desperate in my search, now. I remember various avenues.



I recall the dry relaxation overtaking my system as the poison filled my lungs. It entered my bloodstream and transformed my reality. I was happy. But I was numb.

Then it was gone. I was afraid. I was afraid and the fear had returned, and I wanted to die again.

Next. That was the period in which I allowed my own soul to escape its fortress. Where it belonged.

Oh, how I still long for this feeling. Sensations of my own fluids, warm with my life force,



Trickling down my arms, legs, stomach,

slowly killing me.

Oh, how I still long to die.



And the men! They were the best of all. They told me what no one else had.



I was beautiful to them—at least, my body was. My ears filled with those things… things lovers must tell each other during the most intimate of moments,



“Fuck, yes.” “God, tighten up.” “Say you want it.”



But I knew it, then; and I know it now.



I was not happy, and to them, I was not human.



I was a tool for pleasure, but let’s be honest. What were they to me?

Obviously nothing, I never spoke to them again. What were their names?



Then again, It would have been nice to be someone significant, at least… Right?



I was not significant.



I was a hole.



Just a stupid hole made for fucking and that’s all. I was nothing. Completely insignificant.



To him, I was a rag doll he could toss anywhere at his leisure. The car, floor, bed? His favorite places. He could say whatever he wanted—I returned, with forgiveness. I never failed him. Never let him down, and I bore the weight of his own problems coupled with mine as well.



In the end, I was just a towel to him. An insignificant, replaceable, means of pleasure.



Do I matter? Or will I be missed?





…at all?

I remember how you would scream

And when I heard your voice in my head

I started to tear myself at the seams

I could not have been more blind

My tears fell in a never-ending stream

My sanity continued to spiral in a decline

I believed everything you said about me

I felt all the anger and hatred you fostered

Before you threw me away in the sea

I was drowning in emotions

I couldn’t breathe and began to sink

Until I hit the rock bottom of the ocean

Until I realized I could only go up from there…

He is constantly moving from city to city 

All he wants is to get away 

He needs to forget about his dad who was never home 

And his mom who gave more to others than to her own 

He’s been all alone since he was thirteen 

And his fractured family never helped him pave his way 

That is why he constantly moving about   

Simply trying to attain the love he’s never found

Every time I see an airplane in the sky

I can’t help but look at it with fascinated eyes 

The power they hold is truly amazing 

And I know all too well the happiness they can bring 

And the damage they can cause 

And the dreams they can break

These mechanical birds of the sky can take you places

Places you never knew existed 

Full of people that you never knew would matter

Just like how I never knew you would matter to me

I fell in love 

But then I had to leave

I’ll follow you anywhere

And see it through till the end 

All I want is the chance to be your everlasting romantic adventure 

If you want to give me a tour of what lies beneath your sheets 

Give it to me and take your time, I’m in no rush you see 

If you want to take me somewhere far away where vineyards and sunsets lay

Take me and we can make our own little home to stay 

If you want to let me explore the depths of your mind 

I’ll do so happily, but only if you show me everything you carry inside  

I simply want to be yours 

And I want you to be mine 

I am that rose 

Yellow and sweet

And these thorns on my stem don’t define me

They are present by law

Not present by choice 

And I hope you’ll choose to stay present for me

Written in honor of the massacre of eight people, including six Asian American women who were targeted, near Atlanta, GA on March 16, 2021

I am reminded of my mother

when I rinse rice

in cold water.

Swirling it around,

draining it and filling it

until the water runs clear.

I am reminded of my mother

when I am sick

and eat spicy soup

that burns my throat.

She taught me

that the burning means it is killing the germs.

And I am reminded of my mother

when I read the Hyun Jung Grant

enjoyed watching K-dramas.

Because I remember weekend trips

to South Tacoma Way

to return plastic bags 

full of Korean VHS tapes

and pick up dozens more.

I remember my mother

and her birthday cards 

that simply read 

“I love you, Mom.”

Because writing more in English

was a task too large

when I read that Sun Cha Kim

spoke broken English.

I remember my mother,

after my parents divorced,

moving to Hawai’i to live with friends

and work in Asian restaurants

until she was no longer able

when I read that Soon Chung Park

moved to Atlanta from New York City

to be close to her friends

and work at Gold Spa.

And I am reminded of my mother on her death bed

sending me finger hearts

because she could no longer speak

when I heard that six Asian women were killed 

in a mass shooting in Atlanta.

And I hope that someone told them

in English or Korean or Chinese

or through some small gesture

that they were loved 

that morning.

Pictures were all I kept after the breakup 

Tap.. click..  I deleted most of your traces

I thought breaking up wouldn't be hard 

Especially when it was the right thing to do

My summer was photos of us, your favorite beach, your facetime calls 

Each memory looked sweet but they were sour

When it got cold again I moved them off my phone. Tap Tap 

But now, my gallery

Reflecting white like a frozen valley

What do I have now? 

I quietly gave up one evening

I couldn't ignore an unfamiliar coldness 

I noticed I was no longer a girl, but a glacier  

Still. 

Under miles of blue ice 

Everything around me frozen 

I could faintly.. barely hear above

A droplet coming down the cracks 

It snowed for the first time in a long time 

It came pattering off my window

I could hear it softly whispering down in the night 

Like gentle music, pensive wind chimes

A parade being made for me out of winter?

I thought “This is something spectacular.” 

“They're making a celebration out of ice.”

I walked in it, feet crunching the new blanket of white

The branches all bended under the heavy decorations

I couldn't stop noticing how the cold air was calming

It blew back feelings of festivities 

I asked my Mom “Take my picture!”

I stood in front of a frosted evergreen 

With a smile and snowflakes in my hair 

I will slowly build a new camera roll 

Starting with a picture of me in the snow

Mornings come and sunsets leave  

Sometimes, I like to take a break   

From the ever changing world 

At night I venture through my house  

Warm carpet under my feet   

The cold air washing over me      

Attention entirety     

Night’s energize recognized  

The static shift of my clothes  

Body electric turns 3D                      

I was staring at the couch              

In its classic brown tweed brilliance           

Splashed with warmth in the sunlight   

I could see lint, bright and fuzzy           

What a room endowed with light!         

Uncommon lovely things around             

Through the window I see trees            

With radiant shine and rich brown        

You could miss it already               

“Oh, if only light stayed!”   

I hold dear the truth of touch  

Giving me a space to be free  

Reach out with your hands and see                           

Tweed’s lint is always fuzz

as children we are guided by warm hands, soft hands.

but not shaped. our elders merely spin the pottery wheel

the clay of us choosing our own shape 

the glaze of us becoming our own color.

when we are ready for forging, for the kiln,

the hands pull back but are always ready. 

ready to mend what breaks and

to strengthen that which is brittle.

I was shaped. I was molded.

I originate from a factory. no hands, only machines.

you do not choose. you will not become.

you are not clay. you are steel.

you will not forge. you will cool and harden.

you are not porous. you reflect.

you will not break.

your materials will not be brittle.

steel is strong, everlasting. it does not give.

it does not absorb. but I

cannot be steel, for I am brittle

and I have absorbed. I need mending.

clay is not meant for machinery so I

must have been shaped by warm hands, soft loving hands.

but warmth is a malfunction

and it creates that which the factory must not acknowledge.

the factory is not a wheel

the machines have no warm hands

factories do not make individuals

there is no uniqueness, no difference.

a difference is a defect and it must not be

allowed to cause defects in other products

that clay must not be mixed with the rest

it cannot go with the rest

tragedy never had a charming story

meant to pull one in without an introduction

other than what happened to you?

our disaster wasn’t horrible, but

unforgivable for its actions of

what it did to people like us,

bounded eternally to nothing immovable,

unable to root into an earth once needed

of dirt, the healing ground to roughened skin

and brown dusk covered callouses toughened by time

spent building ourselves up just to crash back down.

we couldn’t soar higher when even standing failed us,

legs no longer the sturdy foundation we relied on

all our lives.

i told you metal was never my element,

you showed me it was just an extension of the nature i loved.

we were never meant to live forever and

chaos shortened the chances,

time ticked towards the last breath but

you never cared for the countdown.

your beliefs wrote that there was beauty after pain,

a life lived ugly still blossomed in legacies

far beyond the end, and if nature once rejected us,

it will accept us then.

when we left, pain truly turned beautiful,

our scars part of the painting on a canvas never meant to be perfect.

one with the earth, they left our stems tethered

to a place we failed to bond to the living.

maybe that’s how our story was destined to be,

where wheelchairs became willow trees