in the autopsy
these past six months, i have learned not to demand brightness from myself while i am still stitching certain parts back together. i have become softer with myself, too. i no longer rush myself toward being OK, or insist that every loss must immediately become some beautiful lesson about growth.
in the notebook
it's been over half a year since i wrote anything. the last thing i published was about losing myself in love. i was writing from inside the wreckage. then i disappeared and let the storms do what storms do best- wreck, pass, and leave their strange little ruins
in the machine
from a designer who was once a source of national pride, to a singer once adored beneath the lights, sometimes all it takes is one fall for the crowd to forget everything: the dresses that once made an entire country proud, the songs they once loved... no one remembers that
in the notebook
1. Fishy and her sister came visiting from Saigon, carrying with them a little piece of justice. her sister's rapist been thrown into jail, and somehow, with my help, the world corrected itself by one small inch. it felt like watching the universe return one stolen thing. not
in the machine
the version of me in my twenties believed that life had three missions: knowledge, lifestyle, and love. only after growing older did i realize that was not enough. because out in the world, the three words people worship most are money, money, and money. and it is strangely hard to
in the autopsy
i tried to become a good person. i tried to shrink myself into something your love could keep safe. but here, they turned my pain into a carnival. they paraded me through the streets like a monster they could not kill. and i kept bandaging the same places they had
in the notebook
i'm sorry for the unread messages. i didn't even realize how much i had missed. but i'm OK. i've been out here touching grass, befriending my backyard toad, getting adopted by weirdos, and i'll try to reply when i can.
in the autopsy
my beloved, these days, while the brutality of each battle with life got imprinted on your eyes and lips, i desperately tried to grab all the most beautiful memories of my life with all my strength, before everything is washed away in the whirlwind of time. those were also the
in the notebook
the last time i saw Laurent was at a little French bistro in Saigon. i ordered a cocktail, and he wanted to try the pain perdu. there was something almost unbearably ordinary about it, the two of us sitting there, choosing small things from a menu. the forty-five minutes
in the notebook
on the days when i am trying to crawl out of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, like right now, i often think of a few lines by Charles Bukowski. "some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight."
in the autopsy
one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,
in the notebook
the city doesn't love me. maybe it never did. people whisper my name like a curse they're trying not to invoke, or a storm they once survived and fear might come back stronger. they're terrified because i remind them of what they tried to