Dear beautiful reader,

Happy New Year! How did you spend yours? I watched one of my favorite childhood Disney Channel original movies Life-Size and cuddled with Komey. It was more than ideal.

As we enter into the new year, I’ve been reflecting on all the mountains and valleys I’ve traversed— before my healing journey, I was deeply insecure and extremely avoidantly attached. To me, love and intimacy always meant getting hurt, feeling trapped, or being overwhelmed. My nervous system screamed, Run! Which led to a further isolating cycle of hyperindependence. “I don’t need anyone!” But in truth, I wanted nothing more than to be loved.

Dating apps were a savior, as such. It at least removed the scary real-life barrier of “Do you like me?” So I swiped and swiped, often resorting to external validation when that pervasive feeling of worthlessness sank in. (And back then, it sank in a lot.)

The first sign that my avoidance was healing appeared in my last relationship, when I had said I love you first, over six years ago. Then when we broke up, more than over four years ago, I knew I was really ending a cycle when I deleted all my apps— for good. My heart was finally open enough to not only interact, but also to initiate… in person.

Now turning 32 next month! It’s funny and quite magical: My actual life feels a romantic comedy. Every day feels like a new meet-cute. I unexpectedly got to spend a whole day with my neighbor, who was just helping me with a neighborly task. I am friends with many neighbors, so this didn’t feel any different. But strangely, there was a spark, as I got to know him and as we discussed our passions and dating history. I saw a version of my old self.

However, I guess this month’s writing explores not all sparks are meant to be sustainable fuses.

I even made a joke to myself, with my heart now so open and unafraid, it feels like I’m a heart whore! Haha. (In comparison to when it was blocked, love felt so scarce and inconceivable. I felt utterly doomed.) (Also, we love sex workers. Decriminalize sex work.) But I’m rephrasing it:

I am a love cartographer. Mapping the wide spectrum of all different forms of love.

Okay, that’s it for me. Write me if you’d like!
I love you,
Amy

Pages: 6
Words: 1,288

Plant Neighbors

On a hot July afternoon, in my Korean disposable cooking gloves, I carried my white ceramic pot, home to my beloved monstera plant, into the courtyard. She had been yellowing, I knew something was wrong. As I used to kill everything in sight, imagine my surprise when I once logged onto a psychic meeting, and she said, with her eyes closed, before any information had been prompted: “You have…” She counted in her head, “seven plants. They all love being in your energy.” Now I propagate and propagate. So, for the next hour, I toiled away in summer’s ruthless oven, sweat droplets forming, though I’m not prone to sweating, as I wrestled off the nursery pot. Root bound! I found she was. 

Help! I only prepared for new soil. What to do?! And then I looked up in a frantic flurry, she needs that pot. The one whose diameter was twice as large. It had been sitting on his bench outside his doorstep for almost a year now. Last year, his bamboo palm drowned in it during Los Angeles’ torrential downpour. Forehead creased, I wanted to say, “Excuse me, sir! You’re drowning your plant!” Instead, I continued to look away, as Dr. Kim had been pounding into my head: “We are not responsible for others.” So I left it alone. 

But this time was different, an emergency. Quickly, I ran inside to grab my phone, and with my steaming plastic gloves still on, monstera lying face down and her broken soil across the courtyard, I came knocking on your door: “Hi! I’m your neighbor! And you see I’m repotting my plant, and well, she’s just way too big!” You looked over my shoulder, “It’s beautiful.” I rushed past, “And well, she needs that pot! Can I have it? I can Venmo you for it!” I lifted my phone up to my face. Without hesitation, you said, “Take it. You can just have it.” Confusion. “Really? No, I can pay you!” You insisted. Wow! Instantly, I poured the new soil in and later, bought a new saucer to match. He saved me at least 70 bucks! I thought. As a thank you, I brought you my favorite ube scone from a local Filipina-owned coffee shop. 

The next day, as I came in with my headphones on from walking the dog, you flashed a wide shiny-grilled smile and rubbed your belly with a thumbs-up. Then a few months later, bumping into each other serendipitously, we found ourselves on a walk. You asked me why I thought I used to kill all my plants. “Oh, I was just super fucked up.” That lands. “And I totaled my car too, I was very depressed.” We walk some more, we talk of spirituality and plants and the connection to selfhood. We finally know each others’ names. 

Monstera begins to thrive in her new pot, so I decide to make you a plant. The gift that keeps on giving. It takes three months. When I finally pot her and leave her on your doorstep, the next time it rains, out on your bench, I see she’s drowning once more. In my pajamas and leopard robe, I knock, “Khaleel, it’s me! Amy! You’re drowning her!” She gets root rot eventually. And I must take her back to perform a kind of surgery. She’s back where she came from, on my counter in propagation jars— to regrow her roots. 

And I think, no matter how much I’d love to love you, it’s best if I just keep it on the counter.

Roadkill

It is flooding again in Los Angeles
Straddling both you and two
parallel universes
between my legs, 
hair pulled, 
arched back, 
Do you know?
The wild baptism 
that bench outside our 
doorstep has seen

But when we bump into
each other in the hallway, 
as we do, on Christmas Eve,
I don’t look you in the eyes

Head hung low, 
your face is backlit, 
two hands held in the front 
pocket of a lilac hoodie:
You wish me a good one

And it is my own indiscretion—
How many times 
I’ve touched myself today,
thinking of your face

Because I know better.
And you are trying
to know better.
That fantasy is much better 
than real life
roadkill.

And so,
we each stay 
on our respective side 
of the street.

Suicide Ideation

I can’t leave now—
There’s no painting on the other side.
There’s no pen and paper on the other side.
And besides, then,
what was the point of it all?
No, I can’t leave now.

God is Real

And no matter how much I prayed against it, 
I knew you’d one day regret everything you had ever said.
That you’d wonder about my whereabouts
after all these years—
when her shine would eventually dull as your shadows,
the joy of replacement toys beginning to fade.

And tears in the night, I prayed for it so much:
Dr. Kim had professed,
“Well, it doesn’t sound like longing… it sounds like 
you’re actually… disgusted.”
I sighed, “Yes. But not at him.
At myself—
for ever thinking that was love.”

The exorcism completed—
Ukrainian redneck with a gun to his head,
me in that red lace lingerie,
no longer gently taking it away,
I pointed it at your pelvis.

And God forbid, one day,
you suddenly perished.

What was that strangeness?
No pain, no grief, no remorse.
Nothing, but just some static in the heart.
Not in a cruel, wicked way. But rather— 
How does one mourn a carcass?

Then, angel number 747, on the back of a truck.

Third eye sight, you’ll come home:
“Is everything okay, babe?”
It’s fine. But unusual— not even a hug.
Her back against you, she sleeps
but this time,

for the rest of her life.

And as a consequence for complicit harm—
My name, published for the dozenth time,
as the writer wife lingers at her unplugged
keyboard with her bony broken fingers

For, only a mutilated man imposes a quiet violence: 
Adores a woman for how much she adores him.
Praises a woman for how much she praises him.
White man betrothed a biracial Black woman,
Woke Racism on his shelf.

And I could proclaim that you’re going to hell—
33-year-old child-girl flails trips stumbles,
each time defending your honor!
Oh, relieve of her agony, you dimwit.

Not a destination to travel to
Delightfully, purgatory is quite polite.
She comes to you:
It is in your mind. 

And you and I?
We both know you reside there— full-time.

Yes. That’s when the dawn broke.

Mitochondria Mother

She might not say you’re pretty
or give you a high-five
But she will tell you—
To go brush your teeth,
“your breath stinks!”
To stand with your back straight,
And to always look someone directly in the eye.

She might not give you a hug
But she’s the one to bring
to a car dealership,
the court room,
or just anywhere
that might require
some haggling.
She can make anyone feel
that handshake of steel.

Each morning, she eats
three bowls of kimchi and rice
as necessary fuel
to fight the patriarchy
every day from 9 to 5.

Someone’s gotta do it!

And who else but her—
To get the job done
just right?

She can do it, too,
scented like a flower
with perfect glass skin
and a Louis Vuitton purse.
“Here, have a mint.”

She’ll tell you, 
The world is cruel,
they turn the cows into 
blood meat, Amy,
so you better adopt 
a beef jerky 
type of mind!

Office with the corner view,
She’s the Director of 
Supply Chain Management.
She is Deu-cheh Unni.
She is Umma.
She is the—
powerhouse of our lives.