Eyes meet as obliquely as fish brush water.

Over the perfect lightness of expensive brunch, words are exchanged. Emotions are expressed. Congratulations given. Sorrows sympathized. Recent successes celebrated.

And maybe you are crazy for turning away from that kind of divine french toast, but you would rather be a full wreck than a half anything.

Sometimes, in this manic-ocean world, you are the lobster.

Alien—

and crawling on the ground because you like the way sand feels.

No wonder they can only think of you as red: the color you finally turn when you are dead

and boiled on a plate.

 

*This piece was read on June 9, 2019 at Wordsmiths, a monthly spoken word event in Seoul.