issue two / celestial
confessionals
Lydia Kim
last night i had a dream, the kind where the blood is in the water and the water tastes sweet. where
honesty is as easy as breathing. like milk candy dissolving in my mouth. when the honeycomb soaks
down to my bones, i answer all your questions. i tell you: yes, i have spoken to the sun. yes, we are
well acquainted. everytime we meet she leaves my arms a shade darker than my shoulders and, no, i
still don’t think i'm all the more beautiful for it. to be honest, i wish i loved the moon more. why? you
know how the sun burns, right? everyday, all the time. the last time i saw her, we were the only people
in the room and when the spark spread across the room, morphed into monster. neither of us set the
sirens off. i confess, i felt far more than fear in that instant. beyond frightened, i was fascinated. in my
defense, by now i am so used to fire that this rainy season has left me starving for even a lick of flame.
i should have rationed the warmth, set all my candles to slow burn because my hands are always cold.
she holds them between heated palms. when the night comes, i cannot hope to keep my blood hot. the
secret is i prefer God when he is silent. i prefer love when it is distant. but i know we’ve all grown
tired of this routine, so i flatten the plane, intercept the orbit. i said to the sun: you are all the moments
i want to exist in. the only monument i wish to worship. i laid: at the precipice, on the intersection, in
front of our rendezvous point, before you. subject to your mercy and goodwill. salvation. i stumble
towards the rising sun and remember: last night i had a dream.
honesty is as easy as breathing. like milk candy dissolving in my mouth. when the honeycomb soaks
down to my bones, i answer all your questions. i tell you: yes, i have spoken to the sun. yes, we are
well acquainted. everytime we meet she leaves my arms a shade darker than my shoulders and, no, i
still don’t think i'm all the more beautiful for it. to be honest, i wish i loved the moon more. why? you
know how the sun burns, right? everyday, all the time. the last time i saw her, we were the only people
in the room and when the spark spread across the room, morphed into monster. neither of us set the
sirens off. i confess, i felt far more than fear in that instant. beyond frightened, i was fascinated. in my
defense, by now i am so used to fire that this rainy season has left me starving for even a lick of flame.
i should have rationed the warmth, set all my candles to slow burn because my hands are always cold.
she holds them between heated palms. when the night comes, i cannot hope to keep my blood hot. the
secret is i prefer God when he is silent. i prefer love when it is distant. but i know we’ve all grown
tired of this routine, so i flatten the plane, intercept the orbit. i said to the sun: you are all the moments
i want to exist in. the only monument i wish to worship. i laid: at the precipice, on the intersection, in
front of our rendezvous point, before you. subject to your mercy and goodwill. salvation. i stumble
towards the rising sun and remember: last night i had a dream.
< previously published by The Aurora Journal >
Lydia Kim is a biracial Korean-American high schooler from Southern California. She loves em dashes, pop music, muffins, and art. More often than not, he can be found binge watching TV, napping, and procrastinating homework. Say hi to her on twitter @summermonsoons