the notebook
1. Fishy and her sister came visiting from Saigon, carrying with them a little piece of justice. her sister's rapist been thrown into jail, and somehow, with my help, the world corrected itself by one small inch. it felt like watching the universe return one stolen thing. not
the pieces
note to self: healing can be so hard when your inner child wants love, your teenage self wants revenge, and your adult self only wants peace.
the notebook
the version of me in my twenties believed that life had three missions: knowledge, lifestyle, and love. only after growing older did i realize that was not enough. because out in the world, the three words people worship most are money, money, and money. and it is strangely hard to
the notebook
i tried to become a good person. i tried to shrink myself into something your love could keep safe. but here, they turned my pain into a carnival. they paraded me through the streets like a monster they could not kill. and i kept bandaging the same places they had
the pieces
apologies to the ones i left unread, my inbox blown up while i vanished into thin air; i like the idea of being someone's peace- but unfortunately, i am a menace.
the notebook
my beloved, these days, while the brutality of each battle with life got imprinted on your eyes and lips, i desperately tried to grab all the most beautiful memories of my life with all my strength, before everything is washed away in the whirlwind of time. those were also the
the notebook
i last seen Laurent at a French bistro in Saigon. i ordered a cocktail, he wanted to try the pain perdu. the forty-five minutes conversation was much about things and people that run in parallels: big corporations, his mother, Parisienne at their finest, someone else's man has became
the pieces
on the days when i am trying to crawl out of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, like right now, i often think of a few lines by Charles Bukowski. "some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight."
the notebook
one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,
the notebook
the city doesn't love me. maybe it never did. people whisper my name like a curse they're trying not to invoke, or a storm they once survived and fear might come back stronger. they're terrified because i remind them of what they tried to
the notebook
solitude becomes a habit. then a home. then a coffin. love will rot in my hands if i touch it too long. some days i feel like i'm unraveling into something monstrous. like if i keep staring, something inside me will snap and never return. i want to
the notebook
in my heart, there is only one wish left: to recover the small parts of who i was. this version of me is no longer bright and untouched. i am scarred, out of place, odd, and still starving myself through days i cannot name. but i still show up. i