Taehee

My mother taught me how to write a love story just like the alphabets

A is for Agatha  

Agatha is my mother’s name. My mom’s is a virgin martyr who named the pincers tore through her breast as “pure love”. All the stories of saints were her stacks of romance novel. Each of them found their way of love whether they were hero or criminal, conqueror or healer, princess or prostitute, prophet or king. I, too, longed for love. I wanted to be a saint.

B is for Betrayal

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” The question should have been a fun and simple one like a Pussy Cat Doll lyric, the exhilarating chanting of “When I grow up I wanna be... I wanna be… I wanna be…” But my own romance novel was left unfinished when I was six. My scorching pincer was a moist red ghost around my mother’s eyes. No one told me that the pure love tasted like humiliation. For the love of my mother, I had to lie.

C is for Confession