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jee Oct 27
rain is running down your window.
its drops, akin to constellations, decorate the glass in clusters, running down the pane when too many join the group.
you watch the chase like a child, tracing each competitor’s path with your eyes until they hit the bottom of the windowsill.

each drop is dyed yellow with the light of the street lamps behind them.

the smell of damp earth is lingering in the air, present even through the walls you hide behind.

the storm outside wears a dark coat of rain clouds, heavy and full.
she touches down on the earth with every raindrop.
your neighbor’s lawn is overflowing with her gifts.

she is insistently loud; demanding that you acknowledge her, comment on her power, complain about her generosity that is flooding your garden, and take shelter in the wake of her downpour.

but beneath it all, the rustling of her heavy grey coat and the thundering of her many feet...

a siren sounds.

a song, sweet and promising, chimes through the night air, its melody akin to a lover’s embrace.
the ozone-heavy wind carries it gracefully and you can almost picture the creature it came from, honey bubbling up at its lips.

you know this sound. you hear it ring under every rainfall.

an urge grows, twitching your feet where they are planted to the floor.
your wrists, as if puppeteered, long to reach for the door.
a deep pull, hooked around your rib cage like a fish doomed, is threatening to uproot you from your chair.

and you wonder, if the rain were to touch your skin, would you be given the sweet salvation you were promised?

would it wash away the ache of existence, the permanent stone settled at the bottom of your stomach that anchors you to the earth?

you swear, if you could just feel the lines of rainwater drip down your skin that you would give yourself away for the promise of a new beginning.

a siren song, the temptation of the sea.

a distant fantasy in the streets of suburbia.

it’s singing to you tonight.

it’s the pull to go outside in the rain in the hopes of washing away all that you are and starting anew.
to watch who you were run into the gutter and feel your soul ebb and wave with the waning of the moon behind the storm.
to feel water running down your arm and soaking your shirt, prickling your skin with cold just to remind you that you are alive.
to surrender to the power of the torrent, to tilt your head to the sky and feel the drops hit the thin veil of your eyelids and run past your ears and trail back into your hair.

the chill of the air is weighted with rainfall, and you feel the urge to cry. you might already have.  

it would be hard to tell in the storm.

the sweet siren whispers in your ear, and her voice is made of rain-slicked tires and damp earth.

“Is this the rebirth you were looking for?
Have you escaped what you were running from?
Will you give yourself to the sea if she asks it of you?”

you ponder. you scream.

a deep empty is beginning to settle where the stone was in your stomach.

how far are you willing to unmake yourself?

you already know the answer.

you can’t.

when you open your eyes, you have to blink the tears out of your eyelashes.
your ears ring with the absence of song, as if they’re aching to remember the echoes of a melody just out of earshot.

water beats on the metal cars and slanted roofs outside and you ache silently with the loss of something you knew you could never have.
the absence of it sits heavy, gnawing at the inside of your stomach and making its way up your throat in cut-off mourning.

the storm whips the trees around, as if berating you for ignoring her, for ignoring her gift of thinning the veil so you could escape to where you would always be unknown.

if you decide to go out, perhaps the siren would come back to sing her sound to you, delivering you to the ocean where you swear you belong.

maybe she'd sing you to sleep away from it all.

but the rain continues to fall and the urge comes and goes and you remain, glued to your window, tracing the constellations of what could be if you only step out the door.
have you ever felt the intense urge to stand out in the rain? it's like a place where reality has thinned and you almost feel like you could slip away unnoticed and wash away every trace that you were ever there. but you can't. and you'll carry that ache with you for the rest of your life.
jee Jun 10
i am not a lost glove, destined to a life
without my other half.
i am the muddied coat of a child,
abandoned on the playground,
lonely but created to be alone.

you may find me in the lost and found;
clean me up, take me home.
no other boot to be discovered,
no sock left behind.

i was whole then, i am whole now.
i wasn’t created for a one true love but instead made to be loved and worn and abandoned and loved and worn again, complementary but never not complete.
jee Jun 2020
the celestial bodies may crash

and burn the sight from my eyes.

but I see you in my mind:

dancing through the galaxy.

and that gives me the right to eternity.

the black holes may swallow

and leave my chest hollow and dusted.

but I hear you in my head.

your voice carries across the empty nothing

and that gives me the right to eternity.

the universe may protest.

implode on itself.


but I can feel you, despite it all:

you’re made of thousands of years behind you.

you run on rocket fuel and pure moonlight.

you live among fragments of time past;

stardust, spaceships, and singularities.

you chose me to hold your solar systems and make sure they orbit.

so I’ll ignore the meteor showers and the wormholes

and cherish our interstellar dust.

because I hold the right to eternity

and I am a space to be reckoned with.
you can't take my right to eternity; I want to see you try. part three of the andromeda series.
jee Jun 2020
you stitch me together with moon cotton;

stardust stuck between the threads.

you sew up my raw wounds

with your favorite constellations.

when I’m hurting,

you kiss my head

and intertwine the planets with my hair;

a daisy chain of celestial bodies.

you lay me down among the ghost town of rocket ships

and dead stars

and you whisper.

“darling,” you say,

“andromeda’s got nothing on you.”
the cradle of the galaxy holds us together; we're all dusted with cosmic belonging. part two of the andromeda series.
jee Nov 2019
she lies in the curve of the crescent moon,
cloaked in blue mist,
drunk off the falling summer sunlight.

her dark gaze is lidded and full.

her voice echoes as a thousand crackling leaves,
landing all at once;
embers from their time-worn fireworks.

she tugs at the rope caught by the harvest
and drags him from the sun-baked soil;
his struggles shake apples from their trees.

graveyards are alive with excitement;
phantom hands reach up through roses
and lilies and melted candles
to wave hello at the spice-heavy wind.

the orange dawn light is hazy,
peering through the ghosts
lingering on the horizon.

and all at once, the world falls into autumn's grasp.
you may see her, winking at you through the equinox
jee Jul 2019
and you’ll see the moon,

reflecting off the light of the sun.

you’ll see the blushing sunset,

dancing around the skirt of the night canvas.

you’ll see the pinpricks of stars,

dead for years yet shining just for us.

you’ll see the one spot in the sky,

where the artist never finished painting

the galaxy around the planets.

the milky way runs patterns across your eyes,

and dyes your shadow a silvery glow.

we’re all looking up at the sky,


for what, we don’t know.

don’t worry,

I’m looking too.
my eyes yearn to see what my mind can not comprehend. part one of the andromeda series.
jee Jun 2019
love taps her walking stick to the walls of my heart,

keeping in time to the blood-rushing heat of my cheeks.

she knows what she wants,

and she doesn’t care who screams at her.

love stumbles when she wants to help,

and brightens with delight when she does.

like when his fingers brush mine,

or her lips are just the right shade of red.

love is deaf to shouts and cries,

no matter whose they are.

she only listens to the thrum under my skin,

alight with butterflies and blushes.

love is unreliable,

she’s broken-hearted,

and she’s fickle.

but above all,

love is blind and unrefined.

and she knows exactly what she wants.
love doesn’t care for your walls and boundaries. love is love, and love takes what she wants.
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