It’s hard to mince words when others mince hearts for sport. I am tired of the illusion of compassion, as if sincerity was nothing but a sleight of tongue. It’s saltwater killing butterflies that bloomed like dahlias, leaving behind an appetite for bad decisions. It’s a boxing rig in an…

I admired how they could walk in many shapes like a marching troupe. Their voices differed in wavelength, yet matched in resonance. They were the wrong puzzle pieces that fit together in certain places and looked beautiful that way. They were whole on their own, yet even moreso together. So…

It’s these kinds of nights where you’d sit out and cry out the same stars you look at. Your mind soared into the stretches of the sky, among dead leaves and flies. You had hoped for an answer to a question you did not know yet. …

We walked together for a moment, so we can run in separate ways forever. Maybe those nights drowning in bottles and smoke were never lies that cooed me to sleep. Our eyes have met once, underneath street lights made of dreams. It was so simple, so quiet, so lonely, and…

When the wind calls us to sift between sand and limestone for a purpose, it is trial that guides us through weathered skin and dry eyes. When purpose calls for a kind of love lost in the sea of time, the end bestows it in a chilling embrace. When love calls for change, we are informed only when we are caught in a crossfire. As seeds, we grow, painfully breaking out of our shells. Its shards pull us apart, shedding histories to make way for new markings. Where wounds clot, stories are kept beneath. Where stories fade, nothing lasts.

As a kid, I always envied all the other kids when the school’s annual Parents' Day swung by. Imagine a day where being carried for nine months has been returned in appreciation nine-fold or more. …

Some days feel different yet so welcome. Like an old friend who comes to visit every once in a blue moon. It barely sits on the tip of your tongue, not jumping in to keep you at the edge of curiosity. A familiarity that can only be reminisced, not recreated. …

Every time I close my eyes, I fear that days will pass me by. My mind blanks out in a blink, memories hanging on the sharp strands of my hair. Who or what sits before me fades into the starless space hidden beneath my eyelids. …

I could count a room of fingers and it would not be enough to match the risks I’ve taken to get where I am. My silence froths at the mouth with a wish for a reward. …