to all the boys i've loved and will love

part i
the gold earring underneath your bed is actually a port key
now if you don't know what a port key is
please refer to the 4th installment of harry potter
a portkey is an object that transports someone from one place to another
just by touching it

back to this gold earring though
we'd spent that november morning in bed
when i noticed its metallic smile shimmering from the shadows
upon closer observation
tracing the edges of its unfamiliar shape
i was transported back to every time i received a lie
oblivious or suspicious
pre-packaged or naked
freshly coated with gold or rust
there is a room in my mind that hosts all of this deception
boxes of lonely jewelry missing its other half
the stench of perfumed bedsheets
this is where all those deleted texts and voicemails go to hide
where skeletons feast on fireflies
where grapes grow thick and heavy
and i can't wait for sweetness
i want the truth as sour as it comes
but there you go again
rolling through a rolodex of laminated phrases
it was always excuses and never reasons

part ii

after playing mom to 3 different boys
i've learned to be selfish
yet
there is a point in every relationship when i unlearn this

falling back into old patterns like
grooves sliding into familiarity
gut feelings become familiar
eels swim up my intestinal tracts as i send out doves every 30 days
we are noah's ark on repeat
repetitive like loading clips into guns
and waiting for the familiar cock to crack silence

there is a point in every relationship when i fall
into the cracks lining your palms
when i want to know more about you
than you know about me
because love only feels right with collateral

it only feels right when i'm being ignored
when fidelity is put on hold
and trust is postponed

this is the only kind of love i've ever known

but i want to know familiar like
scars and birthmarks
like the freckle under your eye
your eyes are two circular amber anchors
i am sinking and falling back into old patterns
familiar like our bodies are everchanging rubiks technology
when everything always fits

part iii

to you, acknowledging history is voyeurism
i used to watch my mother finger through a dining room table
plastered with cellphone bills and receipts
you could have mistaken her for a detective
trying to catch those fireflies swimming between bedsheets and passenger seats
burning black holes into her heart
like cigarette burns into arms and armchairs

what made you think it was okay to lie
to feed me salt instead of sugar
when you knew i didn't know the difference

part iv

every night
i cut the moon in half
and give you the bigger piece

ocean

42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
the halfway point between korea and america
is where i call home

even then, this is not accurate
though i was born a US citizen
my blood contains traces of hanguk soil
so can you imagine what an entire circulatory system looks like
stretched across 5686 miles of ocean?
you could tightrope walk along my vascular tubing
play me like a bass and pluck the frequencies
of what means to be alien
the other
always a foreigner

when asked about my nationality
"american" is never the right answer
not even when
i pledged my allegiance
exchanged kimchi for burgers, duk for cookies
korean school for little league softball
and never once uttered my middle name
suhyung, korean for flowing water,
in fear of opening xenophobic floodgates to racist currents
that swallowed my tongue, my lungs, my muscle
and forced me to learn to breathe underwater
pushed me into the middle of the ocean, where i reside
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
no "american" could never the right answer

my aunt begs to differ
she refers to me as the white american
white american
acts as lashes against my yellow skin that used to yearn
for such identification with handprints of achievement
taunting us from the other side of the glass ceiling
soo-moh, i'm not angry at your blindness
because we share the same story

we both know
cousins sharing songpyon during harvest
sam-il oon-dong bloody fists pounding for liberation
the taste of busan sunsets
makeshift wedding gowns of war brides and orphaned amerasians
churches turned incinerators
screams of burning men and the smell of martyrdom
a baby crying in front of soviet tanks
our families bullet ridden and hung like laundry in town squares
outstretched hands between sisters and brothers
across proxy war barbed wire
now, across the pacific ocean

i know you know
what a riot really feels like
the smell of edward lee's blood
the weight of his mother's heart
the absence of police and ambulance sirens
how to differentiate the sound of breaking glass, from shattering dreams

tell me what's so different between me and you

tell me, when your grandchildren come home with stories of playground racism
will you trade kimchi for burgers and korean school for little league
when they lose their language
will you call them white americans

let's face it
we both wear resentment like christmas ornaments clinging to the walls of our throats
and despite what you may say, we speak the same language
broken english, broken korean
both broken
after our days are done, we both return to the same neighborhood
on the underwater outskirts of acceptance
42 degrees north latitude, 180 degrees west longitude
the halfway point between korea and america