issue two / celestial
drawing crosses over stars
Danmi Lee
tell me; how much of our days
are murder. the only company the flies
flickering on my skin. in peaceful nature lies–
like a cross in the grass, more a gesture than a body; i
look at me, each movement different in the changing lights, and dream
of futures that i lost for you last night.
imagine space – rich with
us. each with different skies and
different constellations. different pictures to
give stars a chance to love each other – what i mean is
where you drew a line, i crossed it in the grass.
the bug bites on my back remind me of
an aging softness; the trace of breath on skin
remembered. whatever touch has come to mean
my fingers play each other not to summon
what they held before but to relieve
the voltage running through my flesh, no spark
to turn it into power. lights out, shock
therapy delivered by
a hungry night which misses getting wasted till i’m
drunk with dew. which misses thinking of my ribcage as a living
room to host whoever wants to come
and go. which misses violence
raw as 4 am silence, and 5 am cold shivers. at 6
i light a candle, smoke a little,
and burn the stars in it.
are murder. the only company the flies
flickering on my skin. in peaceful nature lies–
like a cross in the grass, more a gesture than a body; i
look at me, each movement different in the changing lights, and dream
of futures that i lost for you last night.
imagine space – rich with
us. each with different skies and
different constellations. different pictures to
give stars a chance to love each other – what i mean is
where you drew a line, i crossed it in the grass.
the bug bites on my back remind me of
an aging softness; the trace of breath on skin
remembered. whatever touch has come to mean
my fingers play each other not to summon
what they held before but to relieve
the voltage running through my flesh, no spark
to turn it into power. lights out, shock
therapy delivered by
a hungry night which misses getting wasted till i’m
drunk with dew. which misses thinking of my ribcage as a living
room to host whoever wants to come
and go. which misses violence
raw as 4 am silence, and 5 am cold shivers. at 6
i light a candle, smoke a little,
and burn the stars in it.
Born and raised in Germany to South Korean parents, Danmi Lee was fascinated by pens and pencils from an early age. Since the early scribbles, she has moved on to use them for painting her world in words, particularly interested in the human experience of space and the intimacy and emotions that grow within it. You can find her on the streets of Amsterdam, the Netherlands, or on twitter at @morgenrheuma.