it’s so easy to criticize and keep a cold heart. please show me a heart that is warm and eyes wide open to even the cloudiest of skies; you can turn even raindrops warm with your smile. turn that sunshine to yourself too.

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fire blossom

I’ve done terrible things to people in the past because those people did terrible things to me. I accept that I did terrible things. I was cruel.

But acceptance does not equate to justification.

Past pain should not blossom into fighting sparks. Does not justify, does not excuse stray punches and burns.

Still learning to fight fire with flowers, I’ll quell the flames in time. And maybe one day teach flowers to bloom even in flames, so that even the fire learns to be kind. Stops burning to warming.

I’ll be kind.

And bloom ever so beautifully.

we were taught in show and tell to show and tell things we kept close to heart, take pride even in muddy stuffed animals and seashells. and they listened– we all did, with the earnestness of youth. in our young impatience, we were the most patient, the most kind.

we’re still kids stumbling around in this thing we call living. still getting used to walking and baby talk. sound out words, repeat them until unfamiliar becomes familiar then back again. some words taste a little sweeter. those names that land on tongue like the briefness of a snowflake and those names that we try to sear the taste off our pink.

we find it harder and harder to wake up happily to the bird song and soft sunlight as we did when we were younger. some days it’s hard to move under the weight. we used to fall off the bed all the time back then, finally stopped, now we’re back all over again trying not to fall into uncertainty, into sadness. yet we continue on.

because we know that there were once good days before the heaviest of times, during the heaviest, after the heaviest.

I still do believe in that earnestness of those days. because we’re still little kids, navigating around the world. wind-up of toy car for car keys, nursery rhymes for resumes, show and tell…?

is really still show and tell.

just as we still fall off the bed some days, just as we still trip over words,

we are all still a little confused

but learning.

tired 2 am words that hav no structure whatsoever but here r some words from an oversized toddler of a college student

you made me believe that feeling sad and helpless was normal. to accept it as is, to swallow my words, to wake up aching. “it’s okay” to feel. hollow. frustrated. numb. it’s normal.

but you were the reason why this was my normal.

-reasons for leaving

next time won’t you count with me

woah there, slow down. don’t you think you’re going a little too fast there? stop for a bit. breathe. that’s right, you’re okay. you’ll be okay.

let’s go through the steps again. start with the a-b-c’s, count backwards then forwards, skip instead of gallop. we’re back with our scraped knees and paper airplanes of holiday notices, filling up the marble jar, red-light green/light. take naps, wake up, take steps, take tests, run the mile, make detention slip paper airplanes, part our hair the way we like it. breathe in, breathe out. slow down. patience.

you’ve worked hard.

the sun will rise tomorrow and you will too. just as you have all this time. for now I’ll take your two trembling hands, hold them for a bit, until you’re a little steadier, a little more ready. let’s start with the basics,

you’ll be


a recipe:

It stings doesn’t it? In a way that is bland and numbing, so much flavor in the punch that it stops tasting like anything. Made one too many mistakes, failed one too many times, rejected a million too many times. And for once, we’ve let the punch of it sink in.

Because we can say we tried our best but have we really? We’ve idealized the final dish, made future choices before we’ve even made it past the first step, skipped over recipe and eyeballed measurements. Intuition isn’t everything. We’ve gone and forgotten the details. The little things that make up the big picture.

Didn’t take that extra step of reading over the one-two-three’s, skipped the warm-ups and the pre-heating, simmered a little too long in dreams without action. To the point that we’ve gone and spilled the flour. This doesn’t resemble what we wanted in the slightest. A spreading mediocrity of I-tried’s and next-time’s, it numbs the tongue.

We burnt it a little in the process but the smoke’s all cleared. Yet our eyes are still watering.


we know we can do a better. That we will fail a million more times, burn a million more dishes, cry a million more times, and at the end of the day, know we can pick ourselves back up and run at it another time. We’ll be better with each time, put a little more oomph in it this time, more effort, more us.

So let’s take it slowly, sort apart the ingredients. Figure out if the sugar was actually salt, if we put too much barley in, if we put it in the oven for a little too long, a little too short of a time. Sing while we’re at it. We’ll sort it out. We’ll learn.

For now, let’s stick to giving it a bit more rosemary and a bit more


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