mint water

what are you so afraid of?

why are you?

you push and pull between wanting to belong to something, to someone and wanting to belong to yourself

can there be both?

why can’t you just accept the way that you’re moving along, that you can’t push forever, and sometimes comfort is necessity?


I want to move forward but they’re stumbling steps

I’m uncertain of my words and unsure of why they roll off my tongue the way that they do. My throat’s sore from speaking into the night, my head aches for a response—I’ve become so scared of silence. I’m scared of my words, I’m scared they can’t connect anymore, I’m scared they’ll wither from the cold.

because they’re desperate and worn

I press a mint compress to the aches and drink down mint water in hopes that they’ll come out



I think I’m–no–I’m feeling lost.


hey, I’m sentimental so I cry really easily but I hope you’ll stay by my side anyways

because thinking about you 

makes me sentimental


I’m leaving in three hours to college and not being able to see my family every day messes with me very greatly.

also my insomnia this summer has hit me like a brick and I’ve been feeling rough around the edges all the time; it’s rough

river revision

2am/I can’t say that I was a good person at all in these past 7 years of my life (the last two especially). 

I used past and present pain as a means to justify my own crappy actions and lack of action. I took advantage of people. I was told people were drawn to the light, I found out that they were, I became enchanted by the light and fixated on ways to brighten it. Bathed in my own light in a way that I became intoxicated by it, found that it had become too harsh– an artificial light. Affections and friendships were trophies, dishonesty and manipulation was excused by self-righteousness.

Narcissism masked deeper rooted self-worthlessness and birthed blind arrogance. Fake empathy, empty words, dramatics (if there was anything the light was good for, the familiar “lights, camera, action” does the trick–I was a one-man theatre troop). 

To put it simply, I was cruel and I’m disgusted. 

See, I’m still coming to terms with everything, accepting things that have happened, learning. I’m not proud of myself at all for what I’ve done in the past; there’s no use sugar coating with bits that I have done things for others, that I have been good or kind in bits because I know those bits exist– it’s just that right now, I don’t need them. They’ll only serve to coax an ego or fuel the light that has only so blinded me. I’m focusing on those stains that I’ve tucked away. I don’t need sugar coating or comfort or reassurance or anything. I’m aware. I’m not dismissing my existence as terrible; the actions were. I’m not entirely sorted out, and even now I can’t say at all that I like myself– but I’m not rushing it. 

We’re always in such a big rush to love ourselves, love flaws and mistakes, find beauty in everything but there has never really been a need to. The point is, despite everything, I’m still whole. The ugly parts aren’t ever going to be beautiful to me but does everything have to be beautiful? I can’t ever fall in love with my mistakes but I can accept them and learn from them. And there’s no harm at all in taking baby steps. 

I don’t like myself right now 

but I’m still retracing my steps. Following a little stream, picking up cast aside stones of memory to return to the stream, hoping that as time goes on, I’ll find that bit of me that I’ve lost so long ago to send back. The part I loved dearly. The part that keeps me going. The “little more okay.” Me.
A stream of light, a stream of water, a stream of thought.

To become a person that can inspire me, a person that is “good.” And I believe that when the time comes and I become the person I want to be, I won’t even realize it. Because by then, I won’t even think about the light’s glow but how it holds others. A goodness in whole-heartedness. 

(But I really was an asshole. But at least I’m a self-aware asshole hoping to keep the first part of the title and lose the second… not in a literal sense because I need that part for my health. My bowel movements matter greatly to me.)

because my first and only love was

back in second grade.

There was a boy who had a sunshine smile. He was always smiling. Always laughing. His words rang like bells to me, clear and bright. He was kind. Recess was holding hands and running to the swings, games of tag that I let him win.

I thought I loved him, little second grade me.

But there was another boy. Quiet and serious, wire glasses and turtleneck. Too wise for his age and so very gentle. In the beginning, I could only catch pieces of him, his face was too often covered by book (mind you, it looked like he was reading up on every encyclopedia volume there was). Curious.

So the little overall me, who spoke with a loud voice and played rough started to inch towards the silent boy. It was one winter day, I don’t remember when or how it happened


he smiled.

And it felt like spring.

That was my first and only love; while I still fall for dreams and shy dandelions, I’ve yet to meet somebody who can move me like that day.

Continue reading “because my first and only love was”


you were always so afraid

so guarded

yet so very soft.

always looking out for the next bad thing, the next wave of hurt.

you conditioned yourself into believing every word to come would be the next blow, every touch would curl to fists, every love to be your next heartbreak.

made a point to always take your glasses off, blur vision, blur harsh lines. lessen the damage.

we met.

the me too scared to touch you, the small shaking frame, scared that you’d disappear with the slightest bit of wind

and the you who was too scared of love, too used to paper cuts from paper hearts

the us who could only sit in trembling silence,

shivered in warmth.

be well.

and so I hope that the next person you meet, there is so much love in them, so much tenderness, so much that in that moment, that somewhere inside you

forgets to look for the next bad thing

and looks in front of you.

more a conversation with myself perhaps; is “you,” me? I can’t really say.

anyways, I can say with confidence that any of my encounters with romance in the past left few half-decent memories (the “good” ones came from the ones that were fleeting)

not that I mind all too much

because I’m sure there’s plenty good up ahead of me


I’m okay with waiting.

it’s really funny to me how much I try to convince myself that I’m cynical. It’s contrary really, I’m really just an idealist. A perfectionist idealist, waiting and dreaming for a pure kind of happiness. A sweet imperfection. (paradox?)

I’ve told myself that I would much prefer solitude (in a middle school angst reminiscent kind of way) but in all honesty, it’s really just been a way of pushing down hopes. Wanting to belong to warmth, tired of disappointment, a push and pull. Too impatient for belonging that when it didn’t come soon enough, I gave up on it all together. 


There’s no harm in living honestly. Wanting and needing, talking loud and being confident, in searching. 

I still want that warmth. That feeling of comraderie, a perfect yet imperfect kind of love, the kind that is grown into, the life-changing encounter to a new belonging. I want them so very much. 

While they’ve yet to come, I’m okay with waiting. Now that I know what I want, I’m okay. That I know that I can still hope.

Now to live honestly and confidently.