empty house 빈집

the artist tells me her tattoo
needles & ink bottles are more
than home decor. the apartment
in hongdae is hip hop without
the backtrack of mom’s voice
thirteen hours away asking why.

to get here, i squinted at the sun
hidden behind shades of air pollution,
desperate to reach in & pull him
out of the sky. celebrities
are like the dead. the ride to heaven
a walk of shame, the seeds
that should stay in my body
popping out as an offering after
rewatching giriboy’s performance of 빈집
one too many. i told myself if i saw it again
without the reminder inked into my skin
i’d scratch it there.

날마다 i go to coffee shops
& can’t seem to learn korean
fast enough. a post-nightmare
realization that begins hyperfocus
& embodies an essay titled:
i cope with reality, my sexuality & dead-daddy issues
with male celebrities who don’t speak my language --
gender, class, or english.

my thesis argues that house floods
are cathartic & if only people
could wash away themselves
maybe then my skin would be unmarked.
the final pages are an index,
terms: daydreams & fiction.
i cite wikipedia & pornhub.

the first time i saw giriboy i was a starfish
on my sister & i’s beds, pushed together like
we were kids again. i had enough watermelon
in my bowl to fill our whole cottage. now, i’m closer
to him than i ever was before, but i feel so far from home.

날마다 – everyday
빈집– empty house