what's special about an inch? it's a made up length
no one says "centimeter-ing"
it's "inch-ing"
centimeter is rigid, 1/100 of 1 meter
"why can't the U.S. adopt the metric system"
"it's terribly inefficient to keep using the inch"
but i guess we maintain our stupidly stubborn pride
by insisting on using an inch
a made-up length arbitrarily determined centuries back
by some too-privileged royal who happened to have
a pinky joint - or toe - the length of an i n c h
as an american, however,
i can't help but appreciate the meaning behind
"inching"
as in
we're inching our way towards different goals
we're going at our pace, at our length
the speed and distance we arbitrarily determine for the day, or
for
our lives
because we just have that kind of agency
over ourselves
if we 'centimeter-ed" towards our goals
what fun would that be?
1cm a day? Fixed distance to a fixed goal, onto
the next one,
and the next,
rather than inching across desert plains
of depression
going our speed, our distance, our pace, each day
doesn't matter, so
as long as we make progress towards
what we want
to do

bicultural but not totally bilingual
kids will understand
the sheer embarrassment of having to copy-paste
what your parents text you
in their native language
into Google Translate
detect language
yes, to English, because it's the only thing
I truly understand
because I don't actually really know
what Mom's saying at the end
Do I really get the weight of each word she crafts
lovingly into characters I've learned
but words I don't quite string together
or meanings I don't quite grasp
I swear I do it's just I don't understand one hundred percent and if I could just
g e t those last few phrases
sometimes the entire paragraph she sends me
rather than rely on a gray text editor that spits back
in solid, black, unfeeling English alphabet
"Coming home is always welcome"
that's not my Mom's voice, with her smiling, sympathetic expression and
steaming rice and kimchi stew, warm laundry, and squeaky slippers
that's the translator mincing her words,
chopping and scrambling them into something
familiar to the brain but foreign to the heart
I know she means "I'm always welcome to come home"
but why
couldn't I have gotten that immediately
"I eat food well and I have to buy spring clothes."
No, Google, I'm sure
she means that I will eat her food well
and buy spring clothes with her
but machine learning algorithms aren't
perfect
not my mom
so how would I really know
I wish language could be copy-pasted into English in my mind
so that I didn't have to go through this
bland, unwilling, frugal third-party
that knows nothing about my culture
I am a copy-paste of my parents' DNA
in flesh and blood
so why is it that physically
I am connected
but mentally, intangibly,
I've lost connection
to the internet, and some features of Google Translate may be lost. Try again?

i type my middle name cautiously
s
e
o
y
o
u
n
g
and watch resignedly as the red squiggle appears underneath
but with smug satisfaction
i right click
and hit
'add to dictionary'
hah, take that
i am now part of the lexicon
and you can't stop me

good morning america
it’s midnight, and I’m awake
which means it’s morning
and I’m ready to work
another 12 hours straight
without seeing a bit of sunlight
it’s a good day when there’s no day
in sight
I appreciate the dark more
no cicadas, no brash crowing, none
of that unfiltered nature, only
the cautious rustle of dead leaves
muffled boots on concrete
as I approach the next house
to say good morning.

Too familiar with the unhealthy coping mechanism of numbing emptiness with mindlessness
Your hands are too tired of the math review you’re desperately trying to finish.
You find yourself
Tapping through Snapchat stories, barely paying attention to
The group selfies, of bright, well-lit rooms decked with Christmas decorations
Of red ribbons and green pine and mistletoe
Of the white glints of friends’ toothy smiles
Sometimes the snaps would be videos
With deafening, muffled sounds of cheers, people’s faces recognizable
Even when turned away, laughing, looking at the star, the subject of the snap
All the cameras point to her face as she dances
It’s a party, and the late realization makes you feel dumb
I wasn’t invited. But why would I be?
I’m the asocial one, the one who always has to politely decline with
“Sorry, I have to do homework, have to do this, have to do that”
They’re IB kids. You’re in AP. What’s your excuse?
You think as you sit in front of your fluorescent LED screen
The phone’s luminosity searing through your eyes
But you can’t tear them away from the festive scene playing in front of you.
They’re having fun. It’s nighttime, 11:04, 5 seconds in, but
The environment in your house versus theirs
Seem 12 hours apart, night and day,
You squint, because wow, everyone is there. The close ones, the acquaintances,
That one guy you had to sit next to once in homeroom.
It’s almost Christmas.
You glance around your room.
No cat in sight, mother upstairs, conked out.
Your phone isn’t even alive. The snap has long been over. No vibrations of incoming texts.
You sigh.
Only a semester left.
And your fingers wearily
Pick up the pencil
And you resume
Alone.

how to write about love
when you've never experienced it before
when all you've ever known
is the heady, warm rush
from the bottom of your belly
to the crown of your head
as you hug her
the difference in heights
allowing the divot between her *******
to cradle your cheeks
you go up on your toes
to aim your lips
on the soft, rosy skin of her right cheek
looping your arms around her shoulders
her arms automatically encircling you
your lips smiling against her cheek

one day
you took aim with your lips once more
reaching for the pure, white expanse
but she, too, took aim with hers
looking for your own pale skin
and the timing couldn't have been more wrong
or right
as your lips crashed onto hers
for a single moment
time at a standstill
two different bodies
a pair of mouths making contact

she pulls back immediately
and you don't even register
your feet carrying you to safety
in the crowded cafeteria
its busyness somehow calming your anxious heart
as you spend the rest of Valentine's day alone

kisses aren't quite the same
aren't quite as relaxed
a layer of stiffness neither of us can
or want to uncover
her hugs aren’t tight
but her smile is
as she waves a half-hearted goodbye and turns
to aim her lips
on the bump of her boyfriend’s cheek

Comparing yourself
to others who, unlike you,
succeeded in their goals
is a feeling akin to the one you get
when you watch a bright multicolored parade speed away
its colors meshing together until it becomes
a large, shiny mass of obnoxiousness
the paraders clearly having fun, their screams of joy
slowly being drowned out by the roaring in your ears
the rise of water within yourself
filling the tub of depression
"I could have been in that parade", you whisper
as you miserably watch them leave you behind
*"I deserved to be in that parade--
but was i meant to be there?"

i say keep your memories
treasure them
both good and bad
they capture a specific moment in your life
a specific feeling
you can go back and look on them
and think
"how emotional i was"
or consider
"how happy i was"
you never experience
the same version of an emotion twice
so keep your memories,
and treasure
those screenshots of life you experience.

Cry.
Take deep breaths--
but tears leak out anyway.
More shuddering breaths.
Go upstairs.
Take a bit of time on the last step,
and lean backwards.
Relish in the briefest moment of uncertainty.
A fleeting thought about
wanting to fall down, have the earth swallow,
blackness.
Force that thought away.
Arrive at the bathroom.
Quick glance at mirror, confirm disheveled appearance.
Grab toilet paper.
Blow nose rhythmically,
left nostril first,
then right.
All better.
All better.
All better, right?
Tears again.
Guess not.

She brushed her fingertips gently,
just barely, and
just enough to let her know
that yes,
she knew,
and that yes,
she still loves her just the same.

The girl didn't respond,
but gave a tiny smile,
to let the other know
that yes,
she was grateful for the acceptance
and the comfort,
and that thanks,
she loves her too.

it's a dull word itself
to describe a dull event
in which you feel dull
living
but not living
in a routine schedule
that you call "life"
and where you pretend
like everything is okay
with how you're "living".
i say "living" with
sarcasm,
because if you were
truly okay with monotony
with having a scheduled life
you wouldn't use the word itself
in describing how you are--
monotone.

why does inspiration hit me
at the most unlikely
of times?
when i'm in the shower
scrubbing the remains of the day away
and my brain goes
an idea, madam?
or when i'm awake at 12 am
seconds away from passing out
and my brain goes
a tiny suggestion ma'am?
but then,
how could you be mad
at yourself though?
why would you complain
about the newfound creativity
your brain seems to find
with every step of the way?

Why does my head hurt
When I try to talk
To people who don’t
Quite understand
What I’m about.

Why does my head throb
When I realize that
People don’t care
To understand
What I’m saying.

Why does my head go fuzzy
When I type rapidly
Trying to extract
Feelings not yet there
And put them on paper.

Why does my head quit
When I’m about to reach
The so-called epiphany
The achievement of
Being able to express.

Why do I try
To make this understandable
For everyone? Doesn’t
reading this only make
your head hurt?

I don’t know myself.
Sure, I know what I like and dislike. Everyone who’s lived with themselves should know this.
But do I really know myself, just from my likes and dislikes?
Do I know how I truly act in front others?
How I act in front of myself?
Why I act in a certain way? Why I find myself happy one moment—
And then suddenly angry the next—
And then depressed the next—
And in the end—
The overwhelming,
Drowning, yet
rational feeling,
Telling me, over and over,
“No one will understand you.
Stop acting crazy.
Why are you even like this.”
No loud screaming,
No over-the-top crying,
No excessive movements.
I silently churn out feelings
In bed, with tears on the pillow
When no one else is around me.
When I’m alone
At 12:35 a.m,
Sunday.