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.
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.