fragments of a future

lyn seo

tw: allusions to suicide and self-harm


two years ago, i cradled shattered stars

in my hands and traced their sharp edges

with my soft fingers. i thought about how soft

people are, how delicate we truly are.

i thought about how easy it would be

to take myself apart if i actually tried.

ripping apart flesh like eating a grapefruit,

letting the bitter juice drop down to my elbows.

i used to think of myself like a whisper,

an echo heard then forgotten,

swept up and away in the wind between

the tall apartments and blinking lights.

two years ago, i made fragments of my future,

nightmares woven into my breaths,

and a plea for infinity to become finite

hidden between chapped cherry lips.


two days ago, i cradled my friend’s face

in my hands and traced her cheeks

with my soft fingers. i thought about how soft

people are, how delicate we truly are.

i thought about how easy it would be

to take others apart if i really wanted to.

i rip apart an orange, offer the flesh to a friend,

letting the sweet juice drop down to my elbows.

i think of myself like a poem, quiet still,

but persevering. let me be a gentle summer breeze,

let me be words that you tattoo on soft skin,

let me live forever through the winds.

two days ago, i dreamt of fragments in my future,

hope woven into my breaths,

and a wish for finiteness to become forever

unconcealed behind a smile.

Lyn Seo is a 16-year-old writer from Vancouver, Canada, who weaves her love for her culture, identity, and simple life into words. Her works have been featured in Seaglass Literary, Eucalyptus Zine, and more. When she isn't reading or writing, you can find them binge-watching Korean reality shows or dancing along to MUNA in their room.

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