exhausted

TW- blisters, teeth/bone mentions ~ She spits at the ground by your feet. She walks away as if doing so will end you, and she wants it to. Tearing apart your flesh as if paper, she will write her will on your bones and sew you up half-heartedly. The words will never see the s...

The people are happy, but you would not blend in. The way I stare at a curly-haired stranger, wondering (hoping?) that it’s you. If it’s you, I can avoid everything you drag with you, all of the trauma you shove in your pockets, the endless anger you wear as a crown. The way I look t...

Denial It’s not like I have anything to grieve. My hands stay in my pockets, my head stays down, smile plastered. It’s not like anyone would guess, or anything. It’s not like there’s anything to hate. My writing hides in notebooks, my body tired, eyes wet. It’s not like I’m an imposter, or an...

If I had to describe myself, I think I’d start with the sky. I like when the sky is pale bright blue, or when it’s shades and shades of pink. I don’t love when it’s so bright that I have to squint. I try not to make people wince when they look at me. Being too much can be a bad thing, even for...

#HaibunChallenge no one can tell you how to become a person. it’s always just you Not to say the world isn’t beautiful when you’re someone else. Anyone else. If you know how to be a good person, then life isn’t so hard, is it? Some people have it so easy, with effortless s...

Where am I to go when all I see is dark? A torch? No, a flashlight. All I have is my phone. Lighting up darkness as if there’s anything to see. Muddy black and barking dogs echo in the neighborhood. Cat eyes, to see in the dark. Lamp posts illuminating. All I have is this cherry cigaret...

#LMYA (tw bulimia, cigarettes/smoke) The last thing I tasted was heartbreak. Not bitter, just sweet. No candy can compare. Trust me, I’ve tried. The last thing you ate was rage. You swallow it into your lungs with every cigarette, and I can do nothing but breathe in second-hand smoke, in hopes...

~ I. It’s the writer in me, the poet who longs to be pretty. II. And yet, everyone else has a map. Oh, how I hate everyone else. III. “He said he loved me,” I whisper to my heart, but my head will not sway. I know what he tore apart. ...

- At night, with an eye pried open and one glued shut, I watch the painted walls, lit by ing car headlights, wriggle with a thousand legs of black midnight beetles. At night, with a hand on my heart and the other over my mouth, I glance around as floating dust, m...

~ By the time I grow old, I want my words to flow. To be more sophisticated, more rounded, put-together. Yesterday, my words were sharp. Today, they’ll be the same. Tomorrow, I fear the worst. By the time I grow old, I want my legs to carry me as if I have been reinc...

#myletter / #emel - To whoever sprinkles snow in my yard, early in the morning, sun still small, I wish you a bad day. It’s not that I hate you, of course. We’ve never met, or even talked, and that’s not fair of me. It’s just, I want to be on your nice list. I will enjoy your snow...

~ It wraps around my brain, the feeling of assurance. I have this life, but not for fun, but to hold it for insurance. The people breeze on past me, wrapped in their own righteousness. Their steps are sure, heads up high, confident in consciousness. I hold my breath as I p...