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
the notebook
ba, seventeen years is a lifetime when you are the one left behind. it is enough time for a child to grow into an adult, for memories to fade at the edges, for people to tell me that life goes on. and it does. life goes on. that is the
the pieces
sisters, i have accepted the person i was is equally dead. i had the funeral for my old self.
the notebook
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
the pieces
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.
the pieces
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
the notebook
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