Personal · Thoughts

Onions, and Other Pickles

you have secrets I’d rather not know
and yet I peel away your layers
until I weep

Personal · Thoughts

Letters from Florida

Writer, I was in love with your expressive hands. I’ve curled up and slept peacefully in the curves of your beautiful o’s and a’s.  Soared freely in the space in-between your lines. Touched the wet ink that stained my soul. After you left, I tried to write my own stories instead of living yours. And still, as I wearily sit behind my desk after a long day of work, I can’t help but cut my fingers on the painfully sharp edges of your silent dashes.

Personal · Thoughts

Railroads and Tell-Tale Scars


You may not believe me, but these jagged stripes across my chest are actually tell-tale scars. There was a time in which I could look at them with some amused distance, thinking they looked interesting, like crawling centipedes, or feebly stirring branches, or perhaps desolated railroads. Oh yes, I looked for comfort in all these silly metaphors, for shouldn’t I be grateful that my body, though damaged, is like a train still moving, still advancing?
But over the years I have grown prone to melancholy, the kind that makes me want to sleep in the afternoon and lay awake at night, listening to the city’s familiar cries, a melody of busy traffic, creaking insects and trees stirred by the storm. That’s when these scars, mimicking the abandoned railroads on my heart, start to whisper that I should set them free by letting someone run their gentle fingers over them.

Personal · Thoughts

Ghost Town

After a while you fall in love again, just like your friends predicted.
I’m pretty sure they didn’t mean this.
Memories of awkward silences become I-love-you’s, careless shrugs turn into whispers of I’ll-kill-the-man-who-dares-to-lay-eyes-on-you.
That’s what you get for being drunk in the middle of the day, listening to sad love songs.