ii.You stitch seams. You know how to stitch your skin together after your dad hits you. Your mother taught you what thread is best for fixing yourself. She taught you in the way of you had to learn yourself because she never did it for you. She is your homeostasis. Your father keeps your blood running. Your father buys you makeup because you have to cover the bruises.
You love your parents.
You seal every cut that you make with clear nail polish because it's cheap and it stings and it's toxic and maybe you'll die faster. Your mother taught you how to paint your nails before she taught you how to keep yourself from landing on the floor after every hit. The more you cut the less you bleed. The hair doesn't even grow back anymore. The cells have begun to protest the abuse like the way you do not. You love your parents. They provide you with everything you could ever want. There are three basic human needs, your AP
Open Letter You and I are very rare.
Third generation Asian-Canadians makes up less than 1% of the total population. From an early age we learned to wear three masks like Nezha. I am Canadian. Je suis Canadien. 我是加拿大人。
The grass gives off a crimson light on either side and I’ve been trying to stay safe in the the sidewalk between them but I’m at the edge. Or maybe I’ve already fallen off and I’m just a being of nothing nothingness. I’ve already gotten accustomed to being in nothingness. Been reading Descartes and Kierkegaard and I can’t fathom the mathematics behind happiness.
Two fugitives ran away from home and conceived
The Real YouDay after day, you busy yourself with things that you enjoy, hobbies that make you content, spend time with people who make you laugh. Your friends see you smile and love the sunshine it brings to them, and you yourself are glad you could give them happiness. They see you as someone to turn to when they need to be reminded that life isn't so bad, that there is a way to express joy through the hard times, and they thank you for helping them, even though it seems like you were doing nothing but being yourself. But it was being yourself that spread those smiles to others, wasn't it? A chain reaction caused by the simple act of your own face preforming the ever so contagious grin. They see you as carefree, jubilant, energetic, and nothing seems to bother you. You love when people tell you you've made them smile, and it makes you smile, glad to know that you brought them happiness.
Then you remember who you really are. You remember that they've never seen the real you. You remember that the
Trinity I find myself by circumstance at a loss. Bereft of words plentiful and meaningful enough to utter the praises that all of you so rightly deserve. I have but one opportunity to express just how much you have come to mean to me and why. The clock faces me, oblivious to my frustration while every tick serves to repeat the same reminder. You are running out of time, it says. You had best hurry if you want to meet this deadline.
I thought of writing a series of poems, each one a tribute to the ones I admire and have come to love. Even then, the words just couldn't come out. I thought of creating six word stories, one for each person. Again, the words would not manifest. How to sum up in six words all that you have done and continue to do to this day?
At length, I decided to simply write out how I feel in a letter of sorts. And even with an unlimited word count, I would struggle for days, weeks even to reach out to all of those I have befriended
Me enamoreMe enamoré de ella de forma lenta y sin darme cuenta.
Primero: Conociendo sus facetas traviesas y divertidas.
Después, conociendo aquella parte; esa parte de ese bello ser humano que nunca nadie había podido
tener el privilegio de conocer.
Me enamoré de ella, lento; y después de forma abrupta y fuerte.
Fue sin querer. Sin que ella lo pensara y sin que yo quisiera…
Ella me enamoró; con sonrisas, con lágrimas, palabras y compañía. Ella me enamoró con besos, caricias y miradas. Ella me enamoró; con silencios, regaños y abrazos… Ella simplemente se entregó a mí con el temor latente de lastimarla; con ese temor que todo ser humano, que todo individuo tiene al correr el riesgo de enamorarse, pese a todo eso; ella se enamoró de mí.
¿Cómo es posible? ¡Qué se enamore de alguien como yo!
De alguien tan obsesivo con detalles pequeños y minuciosos.
on breaking and unbreakingand play your favourite song on repeat, on stereo, in the car, through your headphones, blast it loud and whisper it through speakers, the song that you would listen to when crying, when your tchaikovsky of a heart is splintered into pieces, the song that connects you to a hundred, a thousand other splintered hearts, and keep playing it, keep playing it until you write it when you're waiting for the bus, lyrics on skin, until you sing it in your sleep, until your mind flinches away from that first opening sequence, until the words are sour in your lovely, lovely mouth, until the sound of it brings your splintered heart to life just so it can refuse to beat in time to the music.
and once you have done this, remember how you loved it. and remember how they loved you. and remember that you haven't really changed, and the music hasn't really changed, but it isn't the right song anymore. it isn't the one you play when you're crying or when your heart is splintered.
remember when your heart
UntitledTo Scot Ford, my father:
I'm aware that you can read this on my DA account.
I know that you will be disappointed if you're not already, but I'm done with the spying, the constant pleas for help when you know I cannot do a thing to help.
I'm done reliving the emotional torture you put me through, the lack of pay with the excuse that I get free food (something that all other restaurants do for their workers), the hypocrisy you fed to me, my sister and my mother.
I'm finally done putting up with what you've become.
The days where you and I had fun going shopping, shooting firearms and talking like men. I don't know what made you change, but I wish you never left for the Philippines. See women from 18+ sites and more.
I miss the man you were, not the man you are now.
I'm sorry to say this, my heart is heavy, but I need to move on with my life and I can't have you tying me down anymore. You gave me enough emotional trauma to last a life time.
Don't say anything to me, I won't hear it anymor
Foolish Lament Of MineHandsome as the fairy-tale person you would never expect to meet-- Bowing before me as if I were his Queen, not a princess. Lips as pink as a rose; eyes green as the beautiful emeralds on the necklace of a king, yet his posture so correct and poise you would have to see it to believe my every note..
When I was writing this, did I imagine the man I started talking to months ago or did I imagine Tamaki from the romantic school comedy anime.... All these qualities I was listing in this romantic series I had written almost a year ago, and the qualities I listed in my heartbox that's underneath my dresser (that I've yet to bury in the backyard), they had come true... Or were they meant as a reminder..
Was the person I was talking to supposed to be a daily reminder that I'm not foolish to dream endlessly of the possibilities for numerous romantic situations to happen between my future love and I...? I believe so. When I look back on the romantic stories I read, to suppress the lonelin
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