j-uyen3

I could make a story out of this. The blackout epiphanies blinding me like a total eclipse of any sense of rationality I ever stole out from my parents' blind spots when they turned the other way. The boy I fell half in love with and my therapist's unassuming questions about why he was different, the way I was never beautiful to him but he still looked me in my bokeh eyes, betraying and quiet, so that was enough. My vain addiction to anything permanently damaging and more or less glamorous. The dreams I can’t swallow no matter what shade of delusion they come in, about the imminent death of stars named after deader lovers, and place

1. apologize profusely to the ones you were honest with, the ones who believe in you, the ones who never cared, the boy who thought you were worth it, the girl who stayed up all night to hear you breakdown, the doctors, the nurses, the stars, your scars, your little brother who told you he hoped your sad would go away, yourself 2. fall in love with someone who doesn’t understand you. write poems about his eyes being a lighthouse, and his hands being sirens. tell him he is your happiness, he makes you better. tell him his scars are beautiful, he is so breathtakingly beautiful that it’s reasonable you should cry; love him infin

It is painful at times, Seeing those born with skill and talent. They paint such beautiful things, using the barest of material. Entire worlds are spun at their fingertips, all from a dot of paint. I think sometimes, of how nice it must be, To be able to capture such beauty, within the borders of a page. To spin a tale from but the smallest of phrases, To create a fantastic adventure from a mundane experience. It is painful indeed at times. When I am seated in this room, Surrounded by the dull hum of failure and regret, I ask myself, with eyes burning in the mirror, Am I finally ready to give it all up? 'No!' I say I will not let it end

crashed my car driving drunk for the iiird time this week held your faded photograph in one hand and fell asleep at the wheel pretended It was vintage, that the warm sepia coating your smile and the frame wasn’t spilled coffee and cigarette ash. reality isn’t always as bright as my camera flash on your face. put the high in highway at ii hundred miles per millisecond eyes wide and red and hollow and hopeful that a cop would come running after me. ive been needing someone to hold me down and tell me “you’ve been a very bad boy” like you used to. Swallowed i too many pills this time (i didn’t lie whe

1. waiting and watching the door won’t make them come back any sooner, trust me on this one. 2. i know sometimes you yell as loud as you can and people just tell you to hush. sometimes you can scream your heart out and no one will pay attention to you. 3. puppy dog eyes won’t get you through school. 4. why the hell did you go and make me the center of your whole world? (i’m sorry i can’t do the same) 5. i know i’m good at leaving but bad at coming back. you’re good at staying. 6. the rabbits you dream about are brown, your tail is always right behind you, the delivery man doesn’t really want to

What Are You To Me?: I have walked in this world, And they have told me of kings. Of brave rulers who make the tough choices, Men of example and outstanding character. But it was then that they said, What is a king to a God? What is a mere mortal to a higher power, One who holds our fate in his hands? They said he was benevolent and kind, Wrathful and jealous, magnanimous and selfish alike. He was the perfect ideal, embodying all things And we were made in his image... It was then that I was laughed at, By he who asked this question: What is a God, to a non-believer? One who lives by the truth he sees... He is the man who acts as per his

Look. I'll tell it like it was. black. cold. wretched. Static clung to the air like ornaments on a Christmas tree and we were graced with the odd arced lightning. Oh, it was cold. so cold. I remember not seeing, my fingers frozen off as feeling receded from them like waves on a beach. how could I even be sure they were. still. there? the forgotten memory of a sunset lay imprinted on my brain, and its absence made the night emptier than ever. we waited. we waited for the moon to rise, for the clouds to shift, for the e-lec-tri-ci-ty to stop (like lost travelers stumbling in the desert waiting for an oasis mir

Was dull, as funerals go. It was nothing I could help, the sound of it left me. And in the moving crowd of black around collars and scarves and the formless grays of our town , bowel movement of black, broken by a laugh, then two, then a whole cascade. Who is to say I wasn’t mad from knowing the truth or wanting to, not knowing enough? Bobby Sweethouse died throwing himself off the school roof. His mother was the first to collect his remains, ashamed almost to see all the mess her boy had made. Many of my friends had said, he deserved this for being a queer, or something along those lines, I’m sure they could pull whatever th

They say home is where your heart is. Right now I wonder if that means I am away from home, lost on the road between here and there, or that I am homeless.

she’s in love with a character who never existed but in the labyrinth of her head: a patchwork composition of beautiful, lengthy words she’d heard in her catatonic state; coma living day in and day out, reliant on the salvation of a man made of foreign wishing and imperfection and necessity – an ignorance of the less than ideal perception of self she’d come to fear, absention stained romantic to the point where daydreams were a standard for survival (real living is for the purposeful of heart, he loves her in her sleep)