dad told me on the ride to LA that life is always going to have its ups and downs, the same way the heart monitor goes up and down to show your heart is still beating, the jagged movement shows that we are still living. ’cause that’s life, and as long as we keep moving forward, it’ll work itself out. this heart won’t give up on me yet.

i remember listening to my dad’s heartbeat when he would pat my back to sleep in my childhood. c’est la vie. 


you wiped the red off my lips

on abusive relationships and sexual assault.

how dare you try to distort my words. demand I understand you, be considerate of your soft feelings when I write.

I’ve been around people who use their feelings towards me to hold power over my conscience and self for too long. that because they’re so selfless and so giving towards me, they have to right to claim passes on abuse. that the ugliest of arguments and the ugliest of words are okay because they love me at the end of the day. because they’ve done so much, because even though I’ve done a bit for them, they’ve always done more.

tell me how it’s selflessness and unconditional care when the terms and conditions were signed for me to be indebted and grateful from the start? that I signed myself into sad compliance? sign off rights over my flesh and blood?

the night, the moment, the second when you decided to lay your hands on my body without my consent was the very instant you lost that right for me to be so careful.

I’ll wish you happiness but I won’t let you forget anymore, won’t let me be the only one to carry this red, red baggage.

I have the right to write to cope, always have. write for myself to live–it was never for you. and you just as well have the right to an attorney in this sad crime of heartache and sharp words, handprints over skin.

a court that will never be called to session.

I’ll never let you talk me into believing this is all my fault again, never let me falter in my words again, never let you touch me again.

lifetime #1.618

I met you again at the train station.

it took a while before my eyes landed on you, with the trains bloated with sea water and all, it was a little difficult to focus. but I found you in the crowd.

holding your bouquet of daisies, your briefcase singing of wind-chimes, you were carefully trying not to step on a starfish. meanwhile pigeons had started to find their perch on your flustered frame. you’ve always had a way with the world, that humble and genuine warmth– it makes it hard to forget you.

and so I think to myself again, that in this lifetime, just like all the past ones, I think it would be nice to make you laugh.

so stepping over some loose clusters of oysters and scooting around a mildly troubled sea turtle, I make my way towards you.

a fish-eyed wonder, really

I tread water lightly.

that night, I remember how the waves had crashed in the dark, not searching but calling.

looking closer into these waters, it wasn’t too difficult to see that giant goldfish were the source of this medley– not difficult to see but difficult to process, in all honesty. they weren’t writhing, no, but tossing and turning. in the way we turn in our sleep, pushing the covers of water around, wrinkling the sheets.

insomniac goldfish?

I couldn’t figure out too much why they were in these salt waters to start with. it began to rain down, at first a silver rain, then a golden rain– a pure kind of liquid sun in the timeless night, settling on scales and ripples of space. yet the moon stood still.

I dreamt once that you were next to me, watching this same scene play out like fairytale.

tell-tale darling, I wish I were sharing this same sight with you just like that night.

a dream in a dream.

there’s an empty space where you used to stand, it’s a little colder now.



how could I have ever let myself forget those words I said back then

that life will always be a rough draft for us to edit. revise our values as we please, change and mold.

I think I tend to overwork myself a lot to try and forget things– it works but it still leaves me feeling pretty crap. Try to get things done all at once so that the ideas don’t slip away, call it a creative high but I don’t know if it’s really just my working as fast and as nonstop as possible as to not let my motivation slip away. Don’t want my mind to change and resolve to shake. But it’s okay to be flexible, to take breaks, to come back to things.

I’ve always been obsessive with progress. Resolving issues in a day or shelving them to never come back. It’s a resolve that’s weak nonetheless, a cowardly resolve almost that is “finishing things” so that I never have to come back to them.

I need to take care of my body better and give myself and the work I do the benefit of change. It’s okay to make edits.

Whether it be on designs, writing, decisions, and me.

Nothing is ever solidified and doesn’t have to be. Edit.

“just a note, you don’t have to do things in 1 day, like the tshirt design and this and everything. you can let thoughts marinate and make drafts and come back to refining things.”

I realized that I talk to reassure myself a lot of times. and that’s okay.

i think the sad and scary fear is if you’re too fulfilled, you won’t need me to help you fill up the empty. where will i stand if i’m not needed to hold the pitcher?

and that’s the sad and scary thing about it– the co-dependence of uncertainties and insecurities.

it’s especially something I need to break out of. I can exist outside of that role and I’m not needed for a role. a role call never called and never necessary.
because we are not half-empty glasses or half-filled glasses to make full. just the water that ebbs and flows outside, capable of razing our own terrible tsunamis and quelling to soft waves, run like streams or pull like tides. we don’t exist for others, don’t need to stand for others.

the glass sits as its own constancy, empty or not, it’s simply glass.

there’s a empty glass box in the middle of the ocean. but I stand outside. think about how beautiful it looks with the light glancing off it. how I can see the ocean through it just as well. nostalgia strikes deep but I don’t mind at all.

gold flecks reflect off the waves as the sun rises. sweet rosemary prose.


yeah ’cause maybe I’m selfish.

so what if I am?

it doesn’t make me a bad person to want things, to still want to be important, to not want to fade out. at the core, I’m still teetering on the line that borders it from greed. but I try not to be too greedy, not to take more than I should, more than I earned. greed makes me bad (so I think).

it reaches a point where I can’t help but want to step off the line. be ambitious and self-centered. not want to wish people well when they wave good-bye, hold on to people that want to leave, keep them dependent on me, in love with me. not let them grow. a childish and awful greediness I bead into kind words.

but we all outgrow things, outgrow people. they shake off residue eventually, need to go eventually. no good having a hostage case, really. I can’t be blindly selfish forever. can’t keep and choose the things I want, can’t have my way.

so I’ll let go of these things. because it’s good for me and them. them and me.

’cause that’s a part of my selfishness all the same.

-it feels so terribly wrong to clip the wings of these swallows. but I’m greedy to want to keep them around for their song, to want them to exist for me. so I won’t.

but it’s okay for me to feel a little left behind, isn’t it? I want to leave this quiet room too.

I’m not unkind but I’m not entirely selfless either.