in the notebook
the quiet collapse, or April weeps in Da Nang— call it what you want. this version of me isn't glittering. she's scarred, strange, starving herself some days. but she shows up. she brushes her hair. she drinks her water. and when the sun touches her skin,
in the autopsy
every glance you throw at me is another funeral i have to attend in my own heart.
in the autopsy
tumultuous; we all sat down at a little bar and talked about our mothers, as if we are sharing the same mother. the young man once asked me how he could be a better person, i told him to toss out his beliefs.
in the autopsy
sometimes, i was less important than the mess in your life. you could leave me alone because of everything you were dealing with. and because of everything you were dealing with, i ended up leaving myself behind too. you could get busy and forget about me for a month, while
in the machine
there are seven days in a week, six of which are spent wondering if i'm loved. then there's that one day, my mind would send me into the dark hole of the influence of patriarchy that exists in capitalist society that governs human psychology & creates
in the notebook
i don't believe in love at first sight. I believe in love at first debate, first argument, first inside joke, first genuine laughter after a lifetime of sadness. i believe in love at first heartfelt conversation, first completely comfortable un-awkward silence. I believe in love at first
in the machine
apparently, women at every stage of life are supposed to know how to do their makeup, look gorgeous, have a smoking-hot body, keep their husbands and children happy, cook like a chef, ride a broomstick, treasure their youth, need no love, find their dreams, chase their passions, make a
in the notebook
i have been creating collections of black and white images. in the coming days and weeks, you will see a lot of them alongside scattered pieces of writing that may not have any meaning, or be focused on anyone in particular. some of them lack an obvious ending. some end
in the notebook
as the city turned quietly toward April, the world began losing its signal to me. there are voices i will never hear again, conversations that existed only once and then disappeared forever. every so often, old scenes return from the deepest rooms of my mind and flicker there like an
in the notebook
i came back to the city carrying an invisible basket filled with old goodbyes, unanswered questions, and all the things i never got to say. after growing used to accepting these cruel little truths, somewhere between blurred nights and drinking until i blacked out, i learned how to hold myself
in the autopsy
you once told me that sometimes, after falling all the way down and climbing back out of the black hole a few times, it starts to feel almost like some kind of extreme sport for people as damaged in the head as the two of us. for once, though, i
in the notebook
there is one thing my father taught me that i have never forgotten. "no matter what happens, you must remain kind." other people may be selfish. cruel. cunning in small and ugly ways. they may twist the truth and invent excuses to hide the insecurities they cannot bear