to give a grieving son comfort
My dad, nervous and tense
His jokes spilled faster than his tears
“See you later, mom”
It’s funny because she’s dead
And it’s funny because it’s not
It’s funny because it has to be
Hands wringing the funeral program
Three times over during the Pastor’s prayer
Hymns droning but fingers folding
The program, over and over,
A paper square three times smaller
Because he could not be any less large
As the eldest brother of an orphaned three
I took his hand to calm him down
And he turned to me with a funny
Strained smile, all askew, plastered
Onto his face as if to comfort me instead
But it’s not my mother who died
But it’s not my mother who died
But it’s not my mother who died
your closet sucked
shameful secret hidden in your back closet, i
try to make sight by the light bleeding
through the blinds but it is still dark
doyouevenknowthati’minheredoyouevenremembershovingmeinside
it took a while getting comfortable with
the cramped walls and dusty air but
i have learned to call it home, it feels frightening outside
openspaceisscarytomenowdoyoubelievethatiknowicanleavebuti’mtooscareddoyoubelievethat
do you know do you remember do you believe it’s hard for me to i
need you to tell me
gossamer lace spinning my legs
wrists bound vermeil cocoon
over my body I am your
mannequin your meal I am
in your gentle but fraught arms
swaddled in your gossamer lace
it is hard
to breathe through your fine
silk but I cry when I see my
lovely dress so tailored to
my imperfections I am the
loveliest in your eyes
as the world trods on
I often believe I embody what is regarded as
Cancer in this world,
Naivete, foolishness, weakness,
Plain stupidity
Where my heart on my sleeve
Becomes just another chink on my armor
When did emancipation turn into mutilation?
Kill the woman inside, kill the man inside
Your blood runs too red, too warm,
Cool your veins with antifreeze that tastes
Sweet like poison
I see how you replaced your skin
With steel, your bones with iron, Tell me–
Did it stop the pain?
If I were to go under the knife
And let the scalpel tear flesh between
My lungs and my arteries
If I feel my blood pour over my stomach,
Onto the floor
Hold my heart still and drown
My soul in sweet, sweet poison
Will it stop?
Can you tell me?
That weakness is not strength
That there is no love, only war
That peace is a child’s game
That your pain was worth my pain
And I am stupid and naive and foolish
to believe otherwise
I am tired, now
I need you to tell me
plato’s cave
knowing is scarier than not knowing
What if everything I was ever afraid of was true?
What then?
I spend so much time hiding and running away, if I can just escape the light then the darkness will shroud my ugly and deformed skin and I can just pretend that the fire really is the sun and the cave really is the world and I will never have to step out and be blinded by the searing truth
Whatever the fuck the truth is
My legs have atrophied and I really would rather sit here in my cave, in my chains, piss and shit in a bucket while watching dancing trees in the glow of the crackling fire
If my chains feel loose then my bruises don’t matter
My bruises don’t exist
If a pope shits in the woods
Or so the saying goes
my day when i am depresso espresso
bp disorder is a bitch and a half ^^; just gotta ride the highs to get through the lows
It's 2:00 pm and your phone’s alarm has been screaming next to your ear since 10:00 am. But you know this–dreaming is more fun than being awake and life doesn’t seem so dull and gray when you’re sleeping.
being startled awake every 15 minutes gets old though, and eventually your phone gets caught between half-undone sheets and by that time you can’t find your phone to snooze the blaring alarm while half-asleep.
So you open your eyes. Turn over and roam your hands aimlessly between the mattress and sheets and blanket. Found your phone.
It’s 3:00 pm now, but not that it registers in your foggy brain.
You scroll in bed for the next two hours until a faint rumbling from your stomach signals that you should probably eat. You order your usual fast food meal on UberEats, paying twenty dollars for a five dollar meal. Not that it registers. Brain’s still foggy and you cannot think.
It’s just self-care, as you hit the “order” button on the app. You would’ve cooked if you did the dishes if you cleaned your counter if you had the energy. Blah. It’s whatever. You can’t palate anything but junk food right now anyway.
You get out of bed to get your first hit of nicotine of the day and you ride that high all the way to the bathroom. Brush your teeth, wash your face. You pat yourself on the back for doing skincare more regularly, good job.
Go back to rotting on the couch until the delivery man rings your doorbell. Get your food, stepping over empty take-out boxes and plastic on the floor. Eat your meal, it’s your first hit of dopamine today. Feel good for a little bit. Leave trash on your coffee table as you rot on the couch, again.
Scroll, scroll, scroll on your phone.
It’s 7 pm now.
Scroll, scroll, scroll.
You dimly notice that your apartment is getting dark. Too tired to get off the couch.
You scroll for a few more hours until you are enveloped in darkness. You hate the dark, so you get off the couch to turn on your lights. You take the opportunity of being on your feet to get on your bed instead.
Brain is still foggy. Everything is still dull and gray and boring. Not that it registers.
Scrolling is getting unbearably boring, now. You turn on your music and hit shuffle, listening while staring at the ceiling.
It’s 11 pm now. Another day claimed by depression. But hey, at least you don’t want to kill yourself anymore. You pat yourself on the back, good job.
That gave you a little boost of serotonin, enough for you to muster the strength to sing along to whatever song that’s playing. Your voice is hoarse–it’s the first time you spoke today. Nice. another pat on the back, good job.
Not enough serotonin to get you off of bed, though. You turn off the lights from your bed–thank God for studio apartments–and snuggle into your blankets. It feels nice.
You scroll on your phone until 2 am, when you decide to go to sleep. You are excited for the first time today. You wonder what fantasy landscape awaits in your dreams as you doze blissfully to sleep.
would say sorry to be so depressing but hey, this is depression for ya. i’m blessed, though, that this is a temporary episode rather than a permanent state of being. also blessed that things have become remarkably better for me.
to be or not to be?
The desire to belong often times stifles the desire to be. But how does one be if one never learned to be? How does one learn to be, if one never belonged?
Staring at the person before me, I am their reflection. I mirror their pose, their stance, their expression, the way they carry their arms and legs and hold their head. I mouth their words. I observe how they squint their eyes and quirk their eyebrows. I become them, until they leave and another replaces their spot. But I am simply a reflection. I have no voice. I have no body. I am a temporary vessel of their imprint on this shallow mirror. I am a two-dimensional being trapped behind a glass prison of my invention.
When there is no one standing before me, I practice my own pose, my own stance, my own expression. Am I an angry person, one with a hunched back and tight muscles, a glare permanently fixed onto my face? Am I a sad person, wilted and soft with tears ever-flowing in my eyes? Am I a happy person, lips stretched into a beaming smile, my body moving so fast my own reflection would one day be hard-pressed to imitate?
I am a Pinnochio waiting to be. But if I step outside the mirror’s frame, will I have feet to stand upon? Or will I dissipate into nothingness, a mere vapor of a soul, become yet another invisible ghost hanging aimlessly in the air? Will the world accept me as a person, a real person, who is trying to be?
I do not know. And I will not know until I leave the mirror’s edge.
Wanted to write about a feeling I’ve long-grappled with. To describe it as a loss of identity is not entirely accurate if I’ve never been quite sure of my identity to begin with. I feel like this is something more people struggle with than people admit. Understandable as to why–the illusion of identity is accepted as more valid than the lack thereof–but I don’t see why it’s so bad to admit that I don’t really know who I am.
my favorite season
the first time snow sticks on the ground, watching from the window at night how the snow piles, and at dawn you leave your front door, transported to the Winter Wonderland, where your lawn becomes the Winter Queen’s Palace. the night before Christmas, unable to sleep knowing that Santa could jump down the chimney at any moment, if you could just outrun your drowsy you’ll be able to see him eating the cookies laid out on the mantle. waking up the next morning, running down the stairs to check under the tree, opening that Wii you’ve been asking from your mom for months. Santa’s wrapping paper looks just like yours. unending anticipation of impending fantasy, into the looking glass we go, a momentary fairytale giving you respite from the mundane. a season of love, escape, magic. toasty hot chocolate after a day of snowman building.
too cold and biting in the mornings. makes it hard for you to get out of bed, but you have first period in 20. midterms around the corner, but no worries: winter break is just next week. extra layers during the brisk walks around the uninsulated hallways, snowball fights in the courtyard during lunch, playing Christmas carols with your shitty orchestra during off periods. Harry Potter movie marathons with your ragtag friends. sense of accomplishment knowing you’re halfway done. a nice change in atmosphere, the manifestation of progress promising a reward for the tough times. the holiday cheer neutralizing your simmering anxiety. your personal battery pack to get through the year.
waking up in the dark at 4PM. missing the sun and hoping to catch it before you sleep. piled takeout boxes stinking up your kitchen. layers of white sticking at the edges of your windowsill, was it supposed to snow today? mindless scrolling that stops becoming so mindless when you see that the magic of winter has never been extinguished for some people. leaving your apartment in your pajamas, Union Square sells hot chocolate at this time of the year. it’s too sweet and too sticky but you still sip from the cup. looking at the other kitschy overpriced shops as a kitschy overpriced hat catches your eye. your head feels warmer on the way back to your den. maybe the magic of winter was alive after all.
trying to get into habit of uploading 1 old work and 1 new work every time i post!
winter 눈 cento
wrote a cento based off one of my fav songs i’ve been blasting ^^
그 곳에 있는 마음,
또 봄이 도망 같다
하얗고, 차갑고,
아직은 눈이
너무 쌓였다
겨울에 있는 마음,
어디에 꼭 숨어있나?
i luv centos !!! and check out the song i pulled this from: Winter 눈 by SE SO NEON
shoutout to my mom for helping me with translation
10 things i noticed after going back home
oriental acupuncture set laid out on the table, mom tucks my hair to the side as she carefully undos a semester worth of knots.
empty water bottles all around the kitchen, mom prefers to drink out of the tap but she keeps the fridge stocked with poland spring anyways.
dozing off on the couch after dinner time, mom drapes a red cat blanket around me. it feels warmer.
mom comes home from getting groceries. it’s all snacks and junk food. she knows i hate eating healthy.
sleeping in bed well into the afternoon. i’m woken up by a foot massage. mom silently cries as she pads my heel. i pretend to keep sleeping.
mom notices i forget the order of the days. she brings the calendar to the dining table and tells me what happened with each day that passed. she uses my nicotine device as a pointer. we laugh.
mom wakes me up–it’s time for lunch. she makes fun of my morning dragon breath. it’s really stinky.
mom goes to work late and leaves work early to make sure i eat. we talk as she ignores her business calls.
mom notices i’ve been getting more plymp at home. she tells me i look better with more weight on my bones.
loving my mom has never been so easy.
number 6 actually really happened LMFAO. pic of said number:
mommy book cento
Wrote a cento poem (collage poem) based on Briaanna’s “mommy book” <3
when my bravery was tested
to skitter and crash
into our shared wall
i fell into the grass
inside the earth
i couldn’t breathe
and i disappeared from your sight
my lips are bruised and i am bleeding
i have spent so long trying to run away
from you
when i come home
will you be mad?
because mommy i miss you
i miss crying in your bed
i miss hiding in your closet
i miss clasping my hand
in your rougher hand
can you force me to eat?
pay for my therapy?
teach me how to ride a bike,
buy me dessert in Flushing,
take me on walks between dimly lit streets
and let me apologize
while you are trying to sleep?
because mommy i need you
because mommy i love you
please don’t be mad
i have lived a shorter life and you are all i know
thank you to Briaanna for their lovely words :) the last line i took completely from their book–highly encourage you to check it out. Absolutely fabulous work and this poem would not exist without it!
Bri’s insta (where you can find their work): click here!
introduction to me <3
Hello! My name is Davina Lee. Nice to meet you!
This is my introduction.
If I were introducing myself according to corporate, this is what I would say:
I am a rising senior at NYU working on a Politics major and Theology minor. Some of my notable past experiences include interning at Kim and Song Law Firm as well as at the Racial Justice Commission at City Hall. I am passionate about learning how the legal system works on both a systemic and individual level, as well as important skills of the trade. I wish to become a better writer, better communicator, and better leader, and I am thankful for the opportunity to apply to positions that will help me do so. Regarding non-professional passions, I enjoy creative writing and reading, particularly poetry and philosophy respectively. My former freshman undergrad education at Boston College imbued me with a love for the abstract, and this love translates into my academic and creative pursuits.
If I were introducing myself according to my friends, this is what I would say:
I’m Davina, or dabs, or dapenis, or davgina, or dabina, or dapigu. I’m generally pretty airheaded and zoned out, but it’s part of my charm. I love to laugh and make others laugh, and I take pride in being as kind as I can be. I love wholeheartedly and sometimes that is my downfall, but I always get back up! My friendship motto is this: you scratch my back, I scratch yours. I love picking up little random gifts that remind me of my friends. I love saying kind words to my friends and seeing them cheer up. I love hosting parties and dinners and ragers because I love seeing my friends have fun. I love to allow friends to stay over my apartment for days, even weeks for those special loved ones. I love to love, so let me love you!
If I were introducing myself according to my astrological natal chart, this is what I would say:
I am a Aquarius and Pisces stellium. Aqua sun, mercury, and neptune; Pisces rising, moon, and venus. My Scorpio mars makes me a lil spicy, and I have double placements in Taurus for my saturn and jupiter. Wrap all that up with some heavy 12th house and 11th house placements and dayum! You got a chart!
If I were introducing myself according to my failed “talking stages,” this is what I would say:
I’m Davina. I’m anxious, I’m neurotic, I’m insecure, I’m overbearing, but you really wouldn’t know unless it’s too late. I draw you in with my laughs, my jokes, my love, my affection; it feels really good to be next to me, right? Until you peel back my layers and then it is not, and then you are no longer serviced by me and I am now serviced by you. You didn’t mean to get so deep, I didn’t mean to get so attached. It never was really that deep. But I am me and you are you, and we are both two hurt individuals projecting against each other. It is what it is. I still love you, did you ever love me?
If I were introducing myself according to my therapist, this is what I would say:
Davina Lee is a young woman in her early twenties suffering from bipolar II disorder and potentially social-related anxiety. She is working through her emotional codependency issues as well as social-related traumas she suffered from various key moments in her life. She is receiving one-on-one psychotherapy once a week as well as joining group therapy once a week. She is currently on medication–Seroquel–at a 25 mg dosage. Upon monitoring her condition, she seems to be steadily improving.
If I were introducing myself according to my mother, this is what I would say:
My name’s Hyerin, or Dabina. I’m honestly kind of a mess, kind of a bitch. I can’t clean my room to save my life, and I’m always lashing out at my mom for doing nothing. I feel bad. I’m so mean to her. But it’s okay. I’m doing my best. And doing my best means I’m still here.
If I were introducing myself according to my fallouts, this is what I would say:
My name is Davina Lee. I am a raging attention-seeking narcissist. I only really care about how I feel, how I’m serviced, and if I don’t feel good about how you make me feel, I emotionally manipulate you to make you feel bad. I am a hot mess who can’t even make sense of her own life, so I guilt-trip you into taking care of me. So you try to take care of me, but then I get mad at you. What are you supposed to do? I trap you: what happened to the Davina I say I am? You didn’t sign up for this. You’re drained by being next to me. You hurt by being next to me. So you try to leave, but I don’t even let you do that easily. I make a big show of you leaving. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t; what other choice do you have but to hate me?
If I were introducing myself according to God, this is what I would say:
I am but a child.
If I were introducing myself according to Ddeok (my night pillow), this is what I would say:
Davina cries a lot. But she also laughs a lot. She dances, and then sobs. Sometimes, she stinks. She also snores, like, a lot. It’s hard to make sense of her. But I love her anyway.
If I were introducing myself according to myself, this is what I would say:
Hello! My name is Davina Lee. Nice to meet you!
felt like i should properly introduce myself :) vulnerability is scary but it’s the only thing that gets you to really know someone.
first post ever :)
Untitled, 6.15.22
What does it mean to begin anew?
Is it to rise from the ashes just as a phoenix does,
Forged from fire anew, from an elder to a babe,
Relinquish all you have lived, all you have learned,
Let your wrinkles and grey hair burn into
A new baby’s naked form–
To accept that the old has died and turned to black,
All there is left to do is leave your nest once again,
And venture out into the new but familiar sky?
Or is it to lose yourself in the ocean’s currents,
Allow yourself to be carried and tossed and cradled
In the waves,
Don’t swim, don’t struggle, just float–
Cool waters will shield you from the sun’s
Vengeful rays, and if you hit jagged rocks
And sharp coral, the salt from the seas
Will heal your wounds once again.
To accept, to adapt, to change,
Just as the tides do?
Maybe it is to root yourself into the earth,
Strong, sturdy, unbending like the trees,
Entrench yourself deep into the dirt
And grow your branches high into the clouds,
So no one, not even you,
Can doubt your will and path. Let the rain
Quench your thirsty leaves and in turn,
Nourish the squirrels and worms and mushrooms
with your fruit and green and brown,
To be part of the whole, give to the whole,
And be given by the whole, while standing proudly
On your solid foundation?
Perhaps, instead,
It is to do no foolish thing
And liken yourself to a phoenix,
Or a tree, or the waves.
Perhaps, instead,
there is no begin, there is no anew,
Just you, and always,
Just you.
And that is okay.