to matthew,


i don’t take pride in writing you letters you will never see.
but this is the only way.

Continue reading “to matthew,”



All I ever write about is destruction.

How my hands catch too many lemons for me to handle. How the citrus seeps into the wounds on my palms (I’m sorry I can’t stop myself from trying to salvage every broken mirror and every broken heart I come across.) But it’s never serious enough. The shapes of my scars fascinate me, and I’m left to wonder why everything only seems to go right.

Maybe there’s a reason why every morning feels like how nails on a chalkboard sound. Or why I feel obligated to hide this sadness from the world. Every mention of it scares the daylights out of me and triggers the kind of discomfort only written words can fix. I know how lethal these breakdowns can be. I know the people around me can only take my anxiety in small doses. When do I find the reason to believe that my feelings aren’t snake venom?

I don’t need anyone to tell me things will be okay. I just need to understand.

How do I fix something that isn’t broken?

How do I fix something that can’t be fixed?

A/N: I wrote this before I got diagnosed with anxiety. In hindsight, I really should have gotten myself checked out earlier. Everything would have made much more sense.



i am not your therapist

I am filled to the neck

with secrets that are not mine to keep,

because people are so selfish of my solace.

People push and shove to seek refuge

in my suggestions.

It is brutal.

My shoulders are fractured into

a thousand tiny pieces

given away like trophies for comfort.

I am not your therapist.

It is not my job to cushion your trauma.

It is not my job to shield you from your monsters

while mine tear my wounds open and feed on me alive.

The constellations have conspired

to make me the mistress of manic panic pacification/

the love child of internal conflict and Lady Justice.

I am battered and bloodied.

I am broken and bruised.

I’m sorry for your issues


take me off the mailing list.

note to self: for when life gives you too many lemons

The truth about life is that its essence is instability, despite our desperate attempts at routine. We play to prevent the plot twists but we shouldn’t.

There is beauty in the arbitrary and wonder in the odd.

Just remember the number pi and know that at some scale it is inevitable to find a pattern in the randomness of it all.

ghost stories


Your grandmother tells you the story

of how the hauntings start eight minutes after midnight

(the time of her mother’s death and

apparently your grandfather’s too).

How guttural moans shake her lids open

just when the spirits start seeking revenge.

How screeches send her back to sleep

just when the hauntings end and

the spirits take their leave.

(They are afraid of sunlight, she always advised.)


Your uncle tells you not to look

at the family portrait on the sala corner table.

In it your cousin stood next to you,

before she was replaced by empty space,

and died of heat stroke the very next day.


You laugh, and mock, and judge.

But at night, in the solitude of your room,

you put your headphones on, and never let silence settle.

You never look directly at the corner table.

You never go searching in empty rooms.

You never reach for slippers stuck under your bed.

Because all the pictures are watching you,

while you are watching all the dark corners

waiting for movement.

You don’t know when the hauntings start,

but they never really end.