my 엄아. why i stumbled on a green plastic cup

i always thought they hated me. that she hated me.
picky. super particular. willful.

"stop asking 'why'! 그냥헤!"
but, i can't. it just doesn't make sense. just... why? 왜?!

that little green plastic cup flew from the second landing and into my head. there was blood everywhere. it didn't hurt really, kinda like when you get a baby tooth pulled--but the shock of seeing that uncontrollable maroon flow is reason enough to start any child screaming bloody homicide.
and i did.
i did at varying ear-shaking intervals until i was around 10-11.
God. tantrums. it's embarrassing.

and then, emotional implosion. internalizing all that bad stuff. it still sticks. i was always the bad kid. well, always the one who got caught w/ the parental authorities for anything. but, i know i'm lucky. i wonder how different my life would be if i actually got in trouble with the law for the juvenile things that i did. these days, any kind of record will ruin anyone's chance for a productive life.

i'm sure many can say this, but i should've been roofied and/or raped and/or beaten and/or had any number of awful molestations inflicted upon me based upon my unsafe behaviors.
or dead.
i should probably be dead by now.
isn't this sad societal commentary?--and personal commentary, i suppose.

there were fights.
the endless stream of brutal words that could never be taken back. those dark purple bruises. that torn flesh that is scabbing, but beginning to heal; you know exactly where those sore spots are because of your time engendered intimacy. tearing into it w/ deadly precision. there is kind of lovely grace with which you strike. wounds and deep deep scarring.
why do we do this to the people we are bonded to?

the screeching ripping. the tearing down. and it would feel so damn good to be in this carnivorous state because i knew i was right. my cutting arguments were based upon principles--even their principles.
that exquisite twisting invalidation.

there was screaming and violence.
the occasional "fuck" or "shit" would exit my lips, which was preposterous--just impossible, from the Korean daughter.
porcelain little doll run amuck.

and in the aftermath. surrounded by the relational carnage. feeling so dirty and hopeless at my unrelenting ruthlessness. this is the stuff i was made of. probably still am. i would cry and cry and wonder why i am like this? how could i say those things? why do i have to ask "왜?" all the fucking time? and why can't i fit? why don't i fit? my hair and eyes and cheekbones match. what the fuck is wrong with me?

for these reasons, it wasn't until i was halfway through my 20th year that i had this revelation.
in the hazy summer heat of my apartment.
i watched the dust lit stripes cutting across the air in front of my face as i twisted the phone cord with my toes. i carefully held the phone away from me while i lit smokes.
...
i don't know 엄아... that's basically what's going on. work's back-breaking, it's hot--i'm not turning the AC on because it's too expensive...
"no air 콘?"
no... can't afford it. life of a college student. but it's nice to be here w/ my friends, i guess.
"그래? 그런데, wish you were home. 보고싶어."
really? you miss me? but there's always so much fighting while i'm there.
"메리야. dear 따레미... 그래도, 보고싶어."
really? 정말 보고싶어?
"of course. my dear 따레미. of course."