; a desperate update. — isn’t it such a writer thing to say? you are not a writer until you keep proclaiming that you are, while no words have come out of you since the previous year. the pages in my journal are empty, and my notes app is not as busy as usual. …

This is the first piece of fiction writing that I’ve ever posted here, because I always felt like I didn’t have the talents and gravitas to write fiction. The only reason this writing came to be in the first place, even, is for my Fictions Writing Class last term. …

a poem, originally written in December 2022 there’s a specific kind of love that stains your skin like a disease the kind of love that was only ever spoken above a mattress the one that cracks your skull open and point out all the damage it possess the love that has your…

Little did you know, I still curate our future little life inside my head. Wherever I go and whenever I see anything at all that I know you’d like, it’s going to the endless list inside my head. …

We were in the car parked in front of the alley of my house. The car wasn’t yours, it’s an object your parents trusted you and it comes with a lot of conditions, like how you’re starting to seem to me. …

retyped from a journal entry, march 2022 There are four steps in griefing your own boring, mundane life. The one in quarantine, mixed with depression and firstborn daughter guilt, and the need to be the most perfect version of yourself at all times — and condemning yourself when you can’t…

She keeps seeking sanctuary under the crests of the sun, looking for familiarity — even for the mere sense of it. Sometimes she looks for it in the bosom of her mother, the woman who still smells like clean laundry and oatmeal cereal on a school morning. …

at some point, long distance love hurts more than it doesn’t. but you’ll remember that one day you get to see them, and that would be enough to help you live for the time being. in the end, it’ll always be worth it if it’s for you. this is for…

I feel like I’m constantly gutted. That everything I do is always inherently wrong or not enough. Nor will I ever be someone whom my parents want as a daughter. I feel like a tidal wave, yet I am never big enough to lift anyone afloat. It’s a firstborn daughter’s…