Fiction is helplessly entangled with truth of some kind. Much in the same way that Orson Scott Card believes the reader takes in the fictitious material and constructs something in his mind such that he connects with it, identifies with it. And in that sense, fiction becomes reality for everyone, although everyone has different realities.… Continue reading When Love Arrived.
These eyes are haunting. I can’t bear to look at them in the mirror. There’s something… off, about them.They’re like bottomless wells, and those who venture too close run the risk of falling in, never to find a way out. All the light that tries to illuminate its depths inevitably get sucked into its thick,… Continue reading Metaphors for Amor.
no longer do i startle at the sight of some stranger who stole your jawline, your black hair, and how you rub your nose and sigh when a thought takes form. afterall you are not so different – just the outline that makes them familiar, is all. now i smile at your disappearing form now… Continue reading stranger.
I have spent, and am still spending, quite a bit of time processing my molestation on 30 November 2016. I use “my” to convey ownership. A sense of taking responsibility for what has happened, much like the way one would lay out enough food and water for their pet. A more cynical analogy would be that of being… Continue reading Confidence | Arrogance
I can hold space while you see what your heart has to say about me There’s no dotted line to sign away your freedom I’ll acknowledge you for what you do to keep strong I’ll always get behind you, don’t get me wrong I don’t ask for much, just be honest with me I don’t… Continue reading ;
28 January 2017. The day for resurrection has come. Yesterday night, a beast was clawing its way out of my chest. It sunk its teeth into my windpipe as I tried to bury it under more layers of I don’t care and This should not and will not affect me and I am stronger than… Continue reading The Giving Tree.
Keep the good memories then, but remember: they are over. The good ol’ days will never come back. The bad ones, well — (scribbling on a piece of paper before shredding it, smiling) They are past The point of hurting Me, now.