sweet potato poem #1:

one reason on the side of regret for my

clipped-short nails: it would be easier to

hold these long

lumpy pockets of, oh

fuck, hot

skins like velvet I peel away in

threads, what blood

red would look like if you smeared

mud into it. You'd say "don't play with your

fucking food" (I think)

but you wouldn't

say "fucking." The "fucking" is

mine. I

make a mountain of

skin (skin-san. no! gwanak

-san, I mean, I'll

climb it soon). In this
place, I climb mountains.

Here,

I play with my fucking food.