Nine Steps

All that we are is the result of what we have thought, said the Buddha. Have I returned here because I’m drawn to misfortune? The crimson handprint has remained on the wall for over twenty years. At the end of this road, there used to be a bus station ... I wonder where I  was. After stomping on a carton of milk and crushing it with all my might,

I couldn’t have gone far ... wiping the blood off my sleeves, tugging at your shirt ... I’m still near enough to see this, right? Dear kindhearted pain, I try calling, as it drips down the wall. Once, I thought about the upas tree, which can supposedly induce death by blood clot if its leaves brush against the wound of an animal. Did everything else come out of that thought? You are my tree, writing such a love letter ...

Did we begin to erase the wall by walking together, holding each other’s hands tight? Your voice, from when you crushed my hand in yours and said the bathtub was scary, is afloat. The thought of your song being afloat, the song about how the warmth and kindheartedness of the tub makes you want to die—we came from such thoughts. Seven steps toward a higher place, eight steps in the lower place ... Once addicted to the upas tree, a person has no choice but to walk in such a manner. A pause before the ninth step—

There will be a bus station at the end, and I can go home from there. The tub where tears melt nightly is warm. Whenever I touched the wound on your back, it became even harder to tell which thought led to my loneliness. As for whether I should drink the rest of the milk or throw it away, whether I should crush the hand I’ve been holding as if it would crumble, whether I must cut down all the deadly trees and take the ninth step ... 

All that we are is the result of having come out. We came walking out of our thoughts to be loved.