Water Flower

Lilac hair–no, hydrangea hair. She carries a glass baseball bat with her, inside the bat swirled petals of the flowers. Twinkling sounds. A scent of morning dew and after-rain, she is all things fresh and pure, beloved. Her eyes are clear skies. Running barefoot again and always moving.

The Girl beloved by the Hydrangeas. Hello, Dot.

Back again in the rain

To spar with the Wilted.


Don’t step on the puddles.


There is a wilted Lilac. She spins a glass umbrella, strings of wilted flowers hang down from the ends, pieces of shattered glass mingle. Clinking, broken. Humming. She taints the flowers, throws Wilt into puddles. A spin. It’s always nice to have more friends.

She only ever comes out in the rain.


Lily-pads float at the surface of the puddles, like miniature ponds.


A crumpled suit and mussed hair, he runs his hands through lavender strands. Dot’s been running amok again. It’s a little tiring having to constantly rush after the reckless brat. Acting a bit too mature for his age, but there’s not much of a choice, is there? Aroma of sea lavender and black coffee. But he is a Hydrangea on two legs. Ticking. The kid’s late today.

He fixes his tie again, looking expectantly at the door. He holds a polka-dot umbrella (personal taste, this is a judgement free-zone) but he knows that it won’t be much use.


They’re afraid of hydrangeas.


Cigarette smoke that curls up into rain clouds, They exhale.


Bubbling around, petals rise from all around. Fall through. The world is inverted and blue-washed, water-washed. Water falls up. It’s not a safe place to be in. But it’s level-ground. Combat-zone.


Door opens to a watery world. Sunshine smile in a rain-down world. Raindrops that splatter into bursts of music, small sighs. A glass umbrella twirls somewhere. A watch is still ticking.


What’s this?

Willow is weeping. Lily-pads begin to bubble up. Faint violin. The Night has started again. But something’s off.

The rain isn’t stopping this time.

Continue reading “Water Flower”

Big Red Ha.

I’ve always wondered why it was that you’ve named yourself that. It’s 11:42 PM right now and the room’s full of hushed voices and sniffles. I’m not all too good with —

It’s 11:50 PM now. Apparently you are dying and I can’t bring myself to cry. You’ve always liked Pokémon. Red Ha was always the name you fought battles with, trained under, became a Pokémon master as. Because you don’t give up, do you? 

Red. Strength and power, perseverance in all its purity. Holding on.

Big. You are small, but heck, I can see all the bigness of heart and brawn. Your hands still are the size of only my palm, despite your 20’s. 

Ha. In Vietnamese, your name means sunshine and warmth. Like laughter. Like your laughter. 

Hey, Chi Ha. I can’t cry right now because I refuse to believe that you’re dying. Because you still have to become Pokémon master of this never ending series, don’t you?

Because I still believe it isn’t over until it’s over, and I know you believe so too.

11:57 PM


I’ve reached a point in my life where looking at things–I can’t say for sure that I really do have any friends. I’ve tried to teach myself that solitude is pretty okay, and that I’m okay with just being able to run into new and old people for small talk. I’m easily pleased. Every time a person says hello, every time I hear of fleeting attraction, every time I am flattered. But every relationship is superficial, the scraping of the surface, the mere radius of a circle.

I hold people at a radius.

I can say that the circumference of the influence of my words can reach people, but they’re really just words. So it seems my words are connecting to others, but am I?

I watch people be happy together. I like to say a lot I’m okay with this, that I like being alone, that I’m “happy if you’re happy.” But I’m really, really, really. Unhappy.

At the end of the day, I don’t know where or who I can return to. Floating.

I hold people at a radius.

And it’s too far.


and I believe my writing changes depending on who I’m with


with you, it’s all the contradictions. All the black and white, the orange and white goldfish. How the ocean is so different from the earth, debating physics with fairytale to the pull of gravity, to the existence of You and Me. We spar.

with You, it’s the balance. How things are just the way they are, because the world is meant to be that way. It’s the way that the moon pulls at the ocean, whispering bits of encouragement and love, how the earth is okay with loving from afar.

with yo(u), it’s the simpler things. The ocean is blue, the grass is green, you are sad, you are happy, you are clear. It’s the way that the earth and the ocean are simply there, and happy. The moon is bright.

with YOU, it’s the extravagant, the questions, the noise. The ocean wakes up every night to spar with the earth, the moon weaves tapestries for the ocean in hopes that one day the crystalline waters will look up. How grand stories are made in the smallest of things.

and with you me, it’s the abstractions, the stories, and the poetry of you, You, yo(u), YOU, and the million ways of “you.” The “you” that is the bright-eyed boy that tip-toed into the ocean, the “you” that is the sandy-haired girl who spun barefoot on the earth, and the “you” that is the man in the moon. With me. With me, I write the inky veins of me and “you” into shaky, yet my-own-kind-of-perfect, words.

I’ve yet to find somebody who will inspire me to rhyme (I’ve yet to find any love or patience into writing anything to rhyme), but I’m okay with how I am right now.

Continue reading “and I believe my writing changes depending on who I’m with”