you write narratives in a language i don’t understand. i attempt, but the amount of jargon and symbol and syntax, knitted together with laughter, intrigue me and confuddle me, and with every smile, crooked teeth caught in-between upturned lips, i am one step closer to a lost traveler.

this is your mother tongue: functions, ifs and thens, and i try to follow your words, only for my thoughts to race faster and my own letters reduced to affirmations: “yes,” i would say, “okay,” then suddenly, breaths, because all i can do is nod. your voice treads faster than my mind. i chase your syllables with my lips. i swallow them. maybe you will forget, eventually, how disappointed you are with how empty i am.

translate, for me, your stories: your design, your creation, characters. weave them again with your fingers. soon, i will have learned enough to make a narrative of my own, using your words, of how my mind may just be attracted to yours, and (because i’m learning, after all) how fascinating i find you.

(for a friend, because of your narrative metaphor.)

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the code to less lies and more tries

(Posting my reply as a reblog, since I got lazy and wanted to respond as quickly as I could)

The code to less lies:
1. Whoever said that crying is a worthless activity has clearly never had to face pain or sadness. Cry. Grieve. Mourn. But stand up, right after.
2. Choose the pen instead of the razor.
3. There is always someone more deserving of your love.
4. There are always people to call at your loneliest moments.
5. Breathe. With every breath, you are a second away from a second ago.

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oh, how painful it is to have loved first, and realize either one of two things:

1. he doesn’t love you back
2. he loves you, but not in equal measure.

the latter is more painful, because there could have been, but now there isn’t.

(why did i let myself become so vulnerable)

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feels like the blank
spaces between
all of the stars
and sea beneath

feels like my breath,
here everyday,
caging my soul
can’t fly away

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six and seven

six. eager and willing and curious.

seven. you were amazing.

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i’ll keep looking for what you call “empty touches.” it’s the only way i can delude myself into feeling loved.

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This isn’t a prompt reply.

Today, I heard that people have been talking about me. Some story about my out-of-country adventure (note: singular) leaked and I am now called that four-letter S word.

For women in this country, more specifically, it’s worse than being called “shit.”

This is the exact kind of thing that makes me want to kill myself. If I were a more daring person, I will kill myself.

Never mind the dirt on my reputation. I’ve been sullied by this. It’s defamation.

But hey–no one gives a shit anyway.





No one gives a shit.

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