To the Suicide Hotline Operator I Called in High School

My family’s microwaved hot links

taste like anticipated rage.

Here’s the context:

Dad cheated on Mom and said, “I’m sorry,”,

but his apology doesn’t count

when accompanied by his yeoja’s

black floral flip-flops.

Meanwhile Mom doesn’t know

how to accept the heartache.

Her hugs smell like

evening cigarettes,

and I’ve discovered that

yelling at your kids and

menthol-infused Salonpas are similar.

Both relieve pain, feel good

at first, and leave neon green waste

around the apartment.

So my sister and I

secretly agree to look at Mom’s face

until it becomes larger and larger

to drown.

Sometimes I imagine buying

fifty sleeping pills

(cherry flavored)

and dissolving them

in Mom’s soju.

Not on Mom or Dad’s birthdays,

I want to disappear

without disturbing their lives too much.

You ask me what I live for.

No answer.

You ask me what I do in my free time.

I play the clarinet, but I don’t practice.

On good days

I read classics about

the circular nature of time

or womanhood

without understanding what they mean.

I believe in God, but I don’t know Him well.

I like my dog.

A cotton ball with three black triangular dots

in the middle of his face.

I walk him

in the sunset, mellow

like Mom-sliced cantaloupe.

I’m sorry

I don’t know the answer

to your questions. No one

has asked me about myself

in a long time.

Ashley Kim is a Korean-American writer located in California. She has a forthcoming chapbook entitled Hyangsu (Dancing Girl Press, 2024). Her poetry and short stories have appeared in Spill Stories’ anthology entitled Powerful Asian Moms, Hyphen Magazine, Stirring, Autofocus, and FEED, among others. She also reads poetry and fiction for Variant Literature. Find her on Twitter @ashlogophile. Soli deo gloria!