hello, i’m aimi liu / tuyet an liu. i attend university & work full-time so i’m not online as often as i’d like. i’m an aspiring novelist & poet & podcaster whenever i have time on my hands. i’m chinese-vietnamese and all my works are informed by my personal experiences in a way.
if you ever wish to tag me in your own poetry, i track the tag #lookaimi & repost to my personal blog.
personal blog | writeblr | buy me a coffee?
psas:
do not repost my work in any shape, way, or form without permission from me. this includes reading it aloud for a video or audio file.
please don’t use any of my poetry without giving credit to me whether it’s lines for your tags / blog titles / fanfics / novel titles / whatever. leave a credit somewhere whether it’s in a note and if you’re able, link the poem you took it from. it is still my art and creation.
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my therapist calls me the repression poster child
of myth & the monks at the temple tell me i have
a face destined for sorrow. i wallow, i mourn,
i sojourn in foreign cities just for my sadness
& never forgive myself for the weakness.
such a vicious cycle where the guilt eat me alive
& i devour it whole in return. i’m sorry for everything
i feel, for all the thoughts that pass through.
i’m sorry for everything i’ve put out in the world
as proof i exist. i feel too much & never say enough.
i run away at the first flinch & stay until last light.
i’m sorry for all my faults. i’m sorry these words
will never be enough. these apologies spilling out
like water will offer me no absolution or sanctuary.
& i hope this is how you’ll always remember us in the future.
june is heralded by the singing cicadas, humid breeze, & your
lips curling around the rim of an over-sweetened cà phê sữa đá.
the cusp of spring to summer has softened the world with a mist.
the emerald leaves of freshly cut hedges & swaying cerise-pink
blossoms splay against our exposed skin as we brace ourselves
for the sudden heat of afternoon. an insinuation of clouds blur the
cerulean blue skies & embrace the mountains far in the distance.
i grasp your hand with all the rose-gold tint of sentiment colouring
my movements. if someone had asked, i would’ve told them the
truth — if i could submerge myself in this moment for the rest
of my life, in a deluge of every second spent together, i would.
one day, our recollections of this neighbourhood will fall victim
to a hazy softness, like the hasty strokes of a paintbrush over
an unprimed canvas. but right now, it’s bright & crisp like the
edges of just-poured copper. i’ll remember you in these minutes,
illuminated at every angle by the gentle sun caressing your
features like a lover’s questing fingers. if you could ever recall
the times we were inseparable with even a fraction of this
guileless affection, i promise i’ll tend to them like the delicate
cashmere gardenias & amethyst irises in your mother’s gardens.
the heat of the sidewalk underfoot scorch our shoes but i’d
endure it even for you. your fingertips graze the dainty aurelian
chain around my neck, mindlessly grasping the evergreen jade
pendant brushing the dip between my collarbones. everything
might change, but this effortless devotion, this simple adoration,
has already immortalized itself in this city’s hidden histories.
the imperial reds & yolk-yellows of chinatown colour the margins
of our silhouettes. every inch of this place is crooning with a
song from yesterday, a chorus of years bolstering the melody.
the brush of your knuckles against my waist, the gentle murmur
of your voice in my ear. the new boundaries of our world set
by the millennium gates. you guide me through the waves of people,
hand in hand, & i wish we could’ve lingered here just a little longer.
but we’re enclosed in a sea of green while tying up fortunes
& laughing at unsteady feet as we jump mossy stones across
a stream. i press a fragment of a wild red strawberry against your
lips instead of a kiss & hope you understand the words i can’t say.
stifling summer nights & i’m telling secrets only you’ll ever know.
every word whispered into the crevice of your neck as we seek
solace on the floors of an air-conditioned room. we sleep in each
other’s arms & on unforgiving hardwood, blankets strewn all around
like children. you’re smiling at something i don’t know about but
you’re cast in gold by the incandescent lights we forgot to turn off
& i’m too mesmerized to ask. one day, we’ll have to leave this
behind, & i already miss it in my little artless heart. i lie awake
& you’re scratching your charcoal pencils against the cream
paper of your sketchbook. morning light cradles the downy drapes
bordering the windows & i sprawl on the length of your legs before
breakfast. a record plays in the background, accompanied by the
sizzle of a pan & your wholehearted requests to dance in the kitchen.
one day, we’ll tell stories of the days we spent wasting away our
golden years together. i promise you, i will never want anything more.
...every person that you’ve ever been or will be. you wake up
like the cold & wintry corpse of someone you once buried in
the garden. you’re atoning for all the years you’ve spent alive
& the blooming marigold of dawn has yet to break the horizon.
you’re an abandoned painting, nebulous & pewter-grey with dust.
the wind wends through the sleepy absinthe forests & steely
fog while you’re wishing you’ve prostrated yourself on some
decaying stone altar with a cut throat. you want to beg for a
morsel of forgiveness for even breathing. you’ve forgotten
a world unmarred by your existence & you’re burning offerings
as if they’re apologies, as if they’re bridges you no longer need.
i wish i could grab you, lily-white nails digging into your cheeks,
palms soft against your trembling jaw. i’d scream into your ears
about all the things you’d hate to hear but you’re just a ghost
inhabiting a body that no longer belongs to you, fitful & hollow.
you’ve molded yourself in the image of sisyphus. how could i
ever reconstruct you when you’ve subjected yourself to a litany
of acrid fire? tomorrow, you’ll yield your bird-boned spine, bow
your head, & call yourself atlas, burdened by the whole world.
you pluck sunflowers out of their beds every morning & loathe
everyone who’s ever loved you for making that mistake. your
breath catches in your brittle throat when the first syllable of
your name rolls off a bitter tongue. you’re carrying grievances
like a looming cloud threatening a disaster at the slightest
change of wind. you sing a lament for some form of salvation
& find yourself wanting, knotted & inelegant with displeasure.
you’ve shut yourself in the distended canyon of your bedroom,
built by your own hands. you keep shouting, searching for
anyone else but you, & the only words you’ll ever hear are
your own. every scorching wail that leaves your mouth is so
thundering that it silences the seething screams from the sun,
skies, & shadows. not even the loudest proclamation of love
will cut through the miasma you’ve concocted. the white noise
you’ve crafted in fits of self-flagellation is the only sound you
will seek shelter in. as long as you’re drowning in something
of your own making, there’s no one else to lay the blame upon.
no one can penetrate the damp sorrow you’ve sentenced
yourself to decompose in. you’re aimless but alive, nestled in
a static of stormy melancholia. i want to seize you by the
throat & tear you out of the sickly, sullen ice you’ve encased
your remains in. i wish i could cut you with the benevolence of
a sword’s edge & drag you to the edge of a scarlet sunrise
where life continues to thrive. it’s time you’ve mourned for
the savage monstrosities you’ve fabricated in your thoughts.
i press in like a taut crescent of metal & carve out the writhing
shadows of your mind. you shriek, desperate & sputtering,
& claw at the broken glass of your falsified contentment.
this isn’t revenge or one of the bloody vendettas anchored in
your heart. look, the sky is lightening & the day is breaking.
it’s 5 a.m—the morning is unyielding & unforgiving, but sunlight
unfurls, an appeal to innocence & tenderness. your fragile hands
are cradling singing seraphs & the absolution you once sought.
eleven a.m on a monday morning & i don’t know
how to be anyone else in this hollow-husk skin.
it’s early summer & i’ve regressed into someone
you’ve nearly forgotten. these days, life has become
uncertain of me in the way a mother no longer
knows her child’s worst fears or darkest secrets.
i’ve passed through every winding street in this city
like five rounds of bitter, over-steeped tea doctored
with too much milk & sugar to palatize the flavor.
rain pelts the sidewalk like censure & sorrow from
an angry father. we’re stowed away on hard metal
chairs of a little café, waiting out the worst of it all.
sometimes, you say, sorrow ravages you in ways
i can’t recognize. i remind you of shadows where
the light no longer reaches, of over-excavated
archaeological sites, of forests overrun by kudzu vines.
i am a stranger wearing your friend's face with misery.
i want to tell you everything but also nothing at all.
the world has become monotone-mute, bereft of daylight.
this is my monsoon season that has overstayed
its welcome but i’ve become too attached to the deluge,
to the sound of raindrops on the roof shingles & windowsill.
i’ve forgotten the amber warmth of sunlight & summertime
recklessness. my brittle fingers well-worn by cruel
but counterfeit worries. self-confinement in a house
of unsurety has not been kind but it has been quiet.
in the reflections of the glazed windows, i can see the
shades of someone i thought i lost to time & empty wisdom.
in the tense silence, i confess to you a truth i can part with:
this is all i will ever want or need. me, you, & a summer
thunderstorm during mid-afternoon where we’re lingering
on the futures that will never come over a cup of coffee
meant for people who we can never be. maybe, one day,
this lifelong sadness will pass through me like a seasonal
sickness during springtime, but until then, i’ll remain
haunted by the lingering illness when i think of us in our
misspent youths, dawn-light, & the blistering month of june.
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one of these days, you’ll return to the motherland before
you lost yourself & listen to the song of the world once
more; the wending of the wind through the soft leaves,
the baying of beasts unknown, & the rushing of waters
wearing down shadowed stones. a sliver of caution is
cradled in stained, iridescent glass & sitting heavy on
your tongue when you speak. one of these days, you’ll
escape the vicious struggle of now to the world you had
crafted; all glowing iolite, silver, & whispered folklore.
abscond to a realm of your own making where delicacy
softened the dark riot of reality & kindness crumbled all
hardened walls. here, on this plain of grass & wheat,
you let the sun & birds flying overhead sing of times long
past — & you say; perhaps this is the way the world says
the dreaded word goodbye; in the gentlest way possible.
the trickle of rain, the drift of clouds, the snow glazing the
prairies & woodland, the waves lapping at the sandy beach.
where there is a return, there will always be a parting,
& by all the gods, you say, it must be quiet & tender for
everything else is not. because this land is our mother &
she always returns what was lost as long as it can be found.
— for my dearest aya ( @avolitorial ) for secret sappho
What kind of books do you read for poetry? Like how often do you read and how do you choose a poem to read? How did you learn to write poetry?
hello nonnie,
every book you encounter contributes to your poetry from the style to your vocabulary. i read about a book a day if you divide the total amount of books i read in a year (my job has been involved with books for the past few years) and if i have a day off, i can usually devour several books a day. surprisingly, some of the books that have contributed to most of my poetry (which i haven’t posted yet) are non-fiction books.
i, unlike many others, am impatient and will read a whole poetry book in a sitting while bookmarking my favourites to return to. a lot of my choice in poetry book depends on recommendations or picking books off the shelf randomly to read while i’m at the bookstore.
now, as to how i learned to write poetry. i developed it as a hobby in my free time during school (i wasn’t any good, at all) and honed the craft by reading actual poetry books, poets on tumblr, and excerpts posted on tumblr. a piece of advice i recommend most newcomers is to cultivate relationships within the community; dissect the different processes of other poets, join poetry groups for critique, make your own community, and try to interact with posts.
if you want some book (some poetry, some not) recommendations, they’re below the cut! i put + by the ones that i think are the most accessible.
on earth we’re briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong
night sky with exit wounds by ocean vuong
the world is a wound by billy-ray belcourt
the habitations of the blessed by catherynne valente
no language is neutral by dionne brand
undoing hours by selina boan
the crown ain’t worth much by hanif abdurraqib
saturn peach by lily wang
death by sex machine by franny choi
soft science by franny choi
god of shadows by lorna crozier +
oculus by sally wen mao
teaching my mother to give birth by warsan shire +
past lives, future bodies by kristin chang
crush by richard siken
war of the foxes by richard siken
if not, winter: fragments of sappho translated by anne carson
autobiography of red by anne carson
obit by victoria chang
postcolonial love poem by natalie diaz
crying in h mart by michelle zauner
i have a lot more books i can recommend but something i tend to gravitate towards to is non-fiction books in my flavor of the week (examples: deterioration of the earth, soil composites, animal biology, astrobiology, biographies from a certain time period, adaptive architecture, historical preservation of architecture, etc). i think it truly expands your horizons and alters the way you think which allows for a more unique style of writing (and more metaphors, analogies, etc)
— hungry ghosts (hungrier hearts) pt. 1 by tuyet an liu
(alt text below!)
how often do you revel in the remains of a burning?
left untouched by humanity;
too afraid to return and salvage what they abandoned.
summer pries open the ribs of a long-forgotten slaughter season
where the smoky dawn breaks over empty cabins like the aftermath of war.
the smog sinks into the walls, pungent
as the rotting fruit on the dust-covered dining table.
you cradle the desolation—tree husks, ashes, and
the taste of fire—between your sorrow and rage.
this is the godhood you desire;
a destruction, a scorching, a drowning.
(the creator molded me with the eyes of locusts and
gnarled tree branches. he broke open my skull
on an altar of sulfur and stole the remnants
of my mercy when he cursed my blood black with ink
and knowledge. i was hollowed out with nothing
but the searing thoughts of reaching for divinity.)
you plunge your hands into the well of wisdom
and the livid waters scald your delicate skin.
you ignore the signs, the warnings,
an appeal to an innocence that no longer exists.
this will leave you with scars, reminders of the grief you sought.
to know is to suffer, to understand is to envy.
absence is a treasure you've yet to accept.
once you learn, you'll never return the same.
this salvation is a ravaging, an absolution that will
leave a starving creature in it's wake.
(my heart has morphed into a ghost of greed.
it died too long ago to remember what it wants.
i've gorged on nothing but the slick of homesickness and hope,
choked on fishbones and plum pits, while
a garden bloomed over the grave of my youth.)
what are you willing to do to be worshipped?
the creator opens his hands to offer you a new world;
he rests it in your red, raw palms,
chafed to the shade of blood-wine.
the ruins of a city smoulder around you,
the last vestiges of angels that you sifted into dust.
a devastation so lovingly orchestrated it could be nothing but divine.
this is your triumph.
the heavens are singing in your ear.
the ocean of the dead is too vast and echoing.
Hi I was wondering what fonts did you use for How Are You (Still Alive Through Me?) Poem? This is gonna sound weird, but it's perfect for this site I'm making. Also the poem was beautiful.
hello nonnie! i use playfair display (it's a pretty standard font that's similar to eb garamond.) hope that helps you!
— how are you (still alive through me?) [aavillainess]
alt text below!
in my eight a.m class we discussed broken
bones & how they leave phantoms behind,
hidden beneath our skin until the day we die.
(i’m sorry about the way my fingers snapped in your
grip like glass & how i bruised too easily; my skin
only bloomed violet under your touch. you whispered
your halfhearted apologies in the dark & your eyes
couldn’t meet mine when daybreak arrived on the
horizon like a warning, bloodstained & vermillion,
a cinnabar butterfly’s wings eclipsing the morning.)
it was a tuesday afternoon when my professor
told me that surgery incisions never leave,
always forgotten until touched, a false ghost.
(our bodies like scars; reminder that pain exists;
if only to prevent us from reenacting mistakes.
i’m sorry my words were like a honed double-edged
knife. i wanted you to remember what you did;
the way you desired an eternity on my skin. you held
up a pale orchid, once, & compared the lavender
venation patterns to my veins & you asked if i knew
how warm blood felt. i trembled under your grasp.)
it was late spring when my friends asked me
about the first cadaver i saw; if it left me with
nightmares, haunting my dreams like a shadow.
(i didn’t ask if they recalled when you loomed over
my shoulders. my grey-cloaked, parchment skin
& hollow eyes. the way i existed only as a cold
confession in winter. i was quiet sorrow personified.
do you remember the gasping candlelight you held?
your hands, harsh & covetous, suffocated the flames
until it sputtered into smoke & discarded ashes.)
it’s midnight during summer when someone
asks me if amputations can ever fully heal
& all i can say is, depends on what you mean.
(i’ve outdistanced the livid, crimson memories of
you that plagued me. my scarless flesh, bereft of all
your reminders. i see now; like glass. everything you
offer is a brittle-boned, indecorous gesture made
in an attempt to survive, but i cut you out of my
soft, gasping ribcage. i’ve emptied myself of you.
i’ve even silenced the echoes of you in this world.)
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outside the pavement is in harsh rebuke
of zephyrs, brisk & mild.
the day burns out the sky just so
you & i can meet
on two coasts i take your hands
to soothe the calluses
& gather kindness in the fist.
sorry if this is the wrong blog to send to but u had asks on here so hopefully you’ll see it? love you lots !! thank you for being the breeze of my life (2/2)
thank you for the poem, my lovely little babe! <3 i love you lots too my bby.
— when forgiveness is an act of violence (aavillainess)
alt text below!
someday, you'll come to me on your knees
begging for the forgiveness you don't deserve
& i'll have to tell you that the unsettled oceans
between us has become as unbreachable as
the blue heavens. had the broken seas been
kinder, had time not disappeared between our
trembling fingers like the gold sands of an old
hourglass then maybe i would've forgiven you.
if you had knelt like a sinner at the divine altar
of a god with an offering & apologies heavy on
your tongue, i would've relented. but you dug
this grave & this is where you'll have to bury
all those lost hopes & dimming dreams of futures
that belong to no one now. those sunlit fantasies
were ours, once. in another time, in another life.
but those are universes where you didn't hurt me
& i didn't bite my tongue until i bled out every
word i bottled in my throat in fear of setting fire
to the flammable, paper-thin string connections.
those are universes where i didn't disappear at
the darkest hour of the night where only the lonely
moon watched. someday, you will understand that
i'll never forgive you for the fissure-scars you left
behind. in the same way i'll never forget the way
you puppeteered me in to a desolate, hollowed
recess of myself that only ate anger in an attempt
to survive. if i forgive you, if i swallow this rage,
i will have nothing left for myself. one day, you'll
burn your bare knees on the concrete & i will not
look back as i walk into an unbroken aurelian future.
the koi fish in the western pond cut beneath
the clear & undisturbed indicolite waters.
time has worn the bordering stones smooth.
look at this now; it's the season for dreaming
of different possibilities. look around us at the
tiger lilies swaying & the trees brushed by the
breeze. had we known about this kind of peace,
would we have sacrificed all we possessed for
a fleeting moment of our freedom? can the past
ever change? the future is a quicksilver strike;
written with the watery ink of regret & unrealized
fears. the future ahead is dark enough that it's
impenetrable by light. somehow, even with the
peace of the water garden & the calm ripples
of the blue waters mirroring the sun, all i can
think about is how i’m afraid that reminiscing
on this time will dredge up bitter tears. fear is
the only thing i really know. the scarlet red koi
will continue to cut the water & swim in this
pond because they know nothing else but i will
have to go on, out of this garden, & into the vast,
unknown ocean where i may swim into the mouth
of a waiting shark or look my own death in the
eye whilst ignorant. i may find my freedom in the
warm embrace of safe waters. all things i’ll never
discover without stepping forward to the future.
underneath the crimson arches of chinatown,
you're fireburnt. the sweltering, yolk-yellow sun
rises high into the skies & the asphalt glitters as
if slickened by blood, scorching the soles of our
shoes. there are so many eyes that follow you
these days. you raise your chin to the heavens,
challenging the black tides of the gods, hot &
roiling. an unbreachable cavern grows between
you & the world, all the rage worn through the
earth. there is a summit you cannot reach, a
distance you cannot cross. a blood debt exists
between you & the pasts you no longer drown in.
the ever-growing wrath in your chest is an old
whetstone for your heart, your words, as sharp
as any hunting knife. your blood is red & seething
as the hells beneath all the world’s feet. you
cradle your anger, glowing & ugly, but so achingly
tender that it can’t be anything but precious. you
hold resentment, an ember, like a child, so
terribly gentle that it wouldn’t be anything but
with love. you feel like silk running across old iron
as you walk through the streets. the threads
splitting further with each pass. these stone
masks threatening to crumble. the skies hang
overhead, bluer than the seas beyond the forests
surrounding the city, almost taunting. you want
to stand on the golden rooftops & scream at the
unrelenting heavens but will the gods answer?
your voice wretched, your throat raw, & the crows
sing with you from the streetlights. these streets
used to belong to you. the sun once gilded your
hair with warmth like a crown. you once walked
with your back straight, your shoulders light &
unwearied by the world. when will it end? when
will it ever end? you feel like gunpowder waiting
for a spark, waiting for the fire to envelop you.
the fury passed down to you is a memory, a
burden you must carry, & you wish—you hope
your spine doesn’t tremble beneath the gravity.
Your writing is so peaceful to read, I’m not sure how else to word that haha. I just wanted to say you’re very talented, and to keep up with the writing because holy hell you’re talented! Have an amazing day lovely 🤍🖤
thank you and i’m glad you’re enjoying my works. i hope you have an amazing day as well!
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THE LIGHTHOUSE
and i hold you like a lonely lighthouse
where i remain ever your sentinel.
the dying light of the sunset tints the
world as the apricot sun falls beneath
the distant and hazy violet horizon.
its reflection trembles with the gentle,
rippling waters. the world is glazed in
a gossamer thin veil where the past
and present merge into a clouded future
we could never see. the moored boats
rock with the soft of the waves when the
approaching twilight blooms across the
skies. you once said it was your favourite
kind of night. the grey walls weathered by
wind and sea spray bear the forgotten
stories we shared, hiding from the world
and its cruel realities. the heavy memories
of times long past imprint the stone steps
worn smooth from our adventures to the
top. we had our hopes to touch the moon,
to hold the skies, something about being in
a place where we felt infinite and free.
above us were the blue of the skies, and
below us were the white of the rushing
waves crashing against the rocky cliffs,
and behind us were the emerald of the
trees we escaped from. you had pointed
far ahead and said you wanted to vanish
beyond the skyline, towards greater things,
and brighter days, what you imagined as
a great adventure. but now, the gloomy
fog hangs over the fading lantern as the
coming dawn rises over the night ocean.
you sleep and i always hope that you
disappear into your saffron-tinted dreams
while i hold you like a lonely lighthouse.
IF YOU EVER FORGET, DON’T WORRY, I’VE KEPT IT
i remember us in the rose-glossed tones of youth, every
remnant of you still encased in an untouchable warmth
like a cherry sunset. do you remember the unyielding,
aurelian sun melting us into the wooden deck? the rich
teal of the saltwater spray rose up the sides of the ferry
as we crossed the strait of georgia & there was the
sticky sweetness of mango juice still heavy on our tongues
when we drove to victoria. & later, long after the sun fell
beneath the horizon, the heat weighed down the summer
night while we wandered the dark streets of chinatown.
then, in richmond, with the yolk-yellow & scarlet-red of the
night-market stalls where laughter echoed long into the
black velvet sky full of silver stars. here, in the backyard,
where i crowned you with a halo & replaced the gold stud
in your ear with a ruby. there, where we hid behind the old
lemon tree, rich with verdant leaves & ripe yellow fruit, to
read our fortunes when you called me your personal good
luck charm, some form of unlooked for blessing. at home,
on the counter, where we store our memories like change
in a glass jar. here, where we spent sleepless nights
& early mornings steeped in exhausted but content silence.
there’s not a place in this corner of the world that we left
untouched by the sepia-toned reminders for the future us.
sometimes, i’m so afraid of living in a place brimming with
memories so tangible i can feel them, gentle as a breeze.
they rewind & play like a film all day. this place will be so
full of ghosts if we ever leave it behind. every memory
of us in this house is still alight with sonorous arias in the
language of our mother-tongues & if it’s quiet enough,
you’ll hear it playing in the background like a radio. we grew
up together like braided money trees, our entire lives
entwined from the beginning. we don’t say it but we’re both
the light in the corner of each other’s eyes; whether it’s the
flickering candle by the window or the roaring wildfire.
i even hold the threadbare, inglorious fall of our youth
in cupped hands, close to my heart. do you remember how
far we fell? how we almost drowned in the black waters
near those crumbling cliffs? how much we had to tread
water & swim until we reached the cold, pale sands?
maybe you don’t. maybe i’ll be the only one who clutches
onto the secrets we shared on the beach beneath the
moon. but i’ll always remember the you captured in those
precious, fleeting moments beneath the neverending skies;
bright like a happy childhood, untouched by weathered passions.
