this, if anything, is what it looks like for a life to fall apart a building's bloodied bricks stone torn away by storm this corpse of dirt and clay a funeral of what used to be of what could have been
I think I started understanding that I lost you when I had to replace present with past tense whenever I talked about you. It wasn't until I turned "is" into "was" that I understood the weight of words. I wish I understood it before I was slapped in the face with the realization that we've… Continue reading past tense
I think what scares me most is my addiction. Not to drugs, or touch, or cigarettes, but to the early flames of love that wither away with time. I don't say I'm addicted to love, because that would mean I stick around to experience it. No, instead, I feed on those early flames until they… Continue reading pyromania
Earlier today, I saw this video of a girl who wrote down her story. All its highs, lows, and in betweens. She then scribbled all of it onto this blank canvas, highlighted the happy moments, and painted beautiful art over the not-so-happy ones. It was inspiring how she took control of her narrative. Like the… Continue reading Painting Pain
Here I am all over again.
Sitting in my balcony, hands trembling as I stare at the dark phone like one would at a venomous snake, rearing its head to strike.
By now I already know the routine, so I again and again I fumble for a cigarette, smash it between my shaking lips, and light it. The first drag always calms down the tremors within me.
I glance at the phone.
Still fucking there, glinting in the moonlight, taunting me. My hand whips out to snatch the phone, and I open it to the fucking play button that I’ve been staring at for the past 15 minutes.
I can feel it for the millionth time. That raging swirl of emotions in the depths of my stomach rising and bubbling into my chest. I can feel the fucking weight of it all over again. The loss, the regret, and the…
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I told my advisor I haven't been feeling like writing lately. Words just haven't been coming easily, and all the metaphors I make just feel redundant and fake. He told me, "It's better to write about not being able to write than not at all." I'm trying to do that, right now. But I'm not… Continue reading writer’s block
There’s a certain kind of comfort that exists in realizing that every person around you is leading their own life. That your troubles, griefs and worries are not universal - that the young boy in blue shorts you just passed by thinks that losing his football is the end of the world. I think what… Continue reading sonder
she speaksdirectly to my heartthrough thesilent syllablesleft hangingoff of the page i screamhoping she hearsthrough the clutterin the empty …clay
Tonight I dreamt of you The way your fingers traced Summer on my skin in December The way your hair smelled Like the song we would play In your car - wind against my face Warmth in my chest, because You were next to me As the days passed by Somehow I managed to forget… Continue reading the way dreams break us
I thought of how strange it is that my father taught me how to scream before he ever taught me how to ride a bike or fall in love. He would say, “If a strange man approaches and touches you, I want you to scream as loud as you can.” Some nights, I wonder what… Continue reading Scream