the banishment
may your feet forget the path. may every road turn against you. may every compass point elsewhere. may every stranger send you the wrong way. may the trees themselves rearrange before allowing you to find me.
i dream you alive
there is a particular cruelty in waking from a dream of you. for a moment, i have you back. and all the love i still carry for you finally has somewhere to go again. then i wake up. and that is the cruelty of grief. sometimes it gives you back
from hell, with love
on the edge of 33: * gave up the wars that made others powerful. * left corporations to burn without me. * ended a two-year cycle of abuse. * let my own empire sink. * plucked my very first gray hair. * missed the roads and the feeling of being home for holiday. again. became
the gentlest witness
he told me he knew how badly the townsfolk had hurt me. he knew it back then, when i had already removed myself from the map and his messages went unanswered. he said he was sorry. for what they did to me. and for how easily they paraded me through
a small resurrection
she looked at me and said, "i don't think you lost yourself. i think you have just been in pain for so long that you forgot what it felt like to be you. but that is different from being gone. you are still there. i can still
main character malfunction
i get it. you see me in the spotlight, and you must think, this is one hell of a woman. maybe you saw in me everything you were told you were not allowed to become. but you forgot that powerful women still bleed. we still break. we still come home,
everyone loves a downfall
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
money, money, and money
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
after the parade
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
read at 2:17 AM
apologies to the ones i left unread, my inbox blown up while i vanished into thin air; i like the idea of being someone's peace- but unfortunately, i am a menace.
the archaeology of us
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
a bad pain perdu and a decade
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