she tried to be good. tried to fold herself small enough to fit inside someone's safe place. but they made a spectacle of her grief, like a saint gone rogue. she keeps running from the wounds they left, stitching a life from the pieces no one else wanted.
i came from a faraway city, where my childhood unfolded inside a poor but warm little house, where every meal was served with three dishes, where my father’s voice was always soft enough to hear, and where the windows always opened to a gentle kind of sunlight. once, i
sisters, i have accepted the person i was is equally dead. i had the funeral for my old self.
when all the expensive lipsticks in the world can no longer keep you calm, when all the luxury, the bright events, the perfect outfits, the exchange rates with too many zeros, and the direct flights to promised lands still cannot quiet the ache in your chest. and somewhere between those
imagine hurting me the way you did, and still, even now, i pray to God and bow to Buddha for you, asking that you be safe, find peace, and have the strength to live the life you want.
people say it is strange, to be from Saigon and still have no home. as if my heart was forgotten somewhere between all these crowded streets, as if my homesickness had nowhere left to be sent. people say it is sad, a child of Saigon living like a guest who
i want to earn my own money because i never want money to be the reason i hold on to someone, and i never want money to be the reason i walk away. if you ask me to choose between love and bread, i'd say: give me all
it's been almost half a year since i wrote anything. the last thing i published was about losing myself in love. i was writing from inside the wreckage. then i disappeared and let the storms do what storms do best: wreck, pass, and leave their strange little ruins