by Lynn Kim Do

Street Talk | Talking To Myself (A Poem)

White Texture Top - See U Soon // White Culottes - Need Supply (similar) // White Bandana - Express // Air Max 90 - Nike // Rings - Vintage

Forgive me, I haven't shared my personal body of poetry & prose in awhile. New York has made self-conversation more severe and simply, more accepted. In this compilation, I curated some pieces that require heavy inner-dialogue that even, sometimes, happen publicly in a not-so-office voice. Whoops. 

Talking To Myself
by Lynn Kim Do

The ghost of the past haunts me. The ghost of tomorrow lingers over my shoulder. The spirit of today feels claustrophobic. 
"Step the fuck back," he whispers until words form blades tickling the roof of his mouth. Kinda like jawbreakers and too many hot 
Cheetos. “You need us, son. We keep you on your toes.” He broke in a rage, flailed his arms, hissed, and crawled to a corner. Once his 
tantrum was over, he stood back up, fixed his shirt, wiped his running snot, stood between the two ghosts,. He, he grew curious. 


My head is my heart's greatest challenge. And her savior. He protects her when she's knee deep in a dark river. Hard to see if the river leads to a 10 ft drop or a fountain. 
"A fountain doesn't even make sense."
"And, why not?"
"Are you serious? What world do you live in? Geographically, there is NO body of water that ends up in a fountain"
"the fountain of youth?"
"You have to be joking."
"If someone can imagine it, then it can be real."
“Yeah, much like this conversation?" 
A smirk grew on my face. I looked around to see if anyone caught it, too. 


"Really, you're going to let him change everything you believe in?"
“I mean, yeah. Wouldn't you want to feel it.”
The kind of "it" that people write whole novels on, sing songs about, bring war across kingdoms for, and even die for.
die, die, die. That word rung in his ear. 
Because no one really understands what "It" is. 
Why die, die, die when you can't even understand what you're dying for.
It continues as a chant in his head - die die die die die die die - until it became melodic.
“Stop it”
“Stop thinking about “It". You’ll kill it.”


All these thoughts. 
“Remove it. End it”
Hacking into her rib cage, hacking harder -flinch- and slips too easily through the tissue. 

 Photos by Daniela Spector