a mistake

It was quiet, save for the sound of breathing.

He slept, unaware of her, or her eyes. She could faintly make out his face. 

For a long time, she watched him.

What the fuck did he mean by, “almost cute”? When he’d seen the expression on her face, he had laughed it off, distracting her with his touch. He was that kind of man. And yet, despite their mutual exhaustion, she couldn’t think of anything else.

    Had he even enjoyed it? Was she good enough? Compared to…


… Hadn’t it been enough?

    She got up, fumbled her way through the suddenly-unfamiliar room.

    The shower water was as hot as it always had been. She made a fist as water met skin, steam quickly filling the room. Though she had closed the door, she hadn’t turned on the light, nor the fan.

    The scent of soap would not be enough. She scrubbed and scrubbed, the sponge grating against ruined skin.

    This was a mistake. 

Graduation / May – 3 Years Later

You know it’s been three years since I’ve come to California?

Holy shit dude, you made it really far. You know, I’ve had some of the most harrowing experiences here. I clashed and fought with so many people. My friends, my family, and even significant others. And I’ve grown so, so much over these last few years. I can barely remember what it was like to be me.

Time has turned all the way around. I’ve made it through the night, worked through the disappointment I had of not having a relationship work out. Stopped beating myself mentally for anything, really. It comes and it goes, but it’s never as intense as it used to be. And just a few days ago, one of my creative pieces was published. Things are looking up.

Even with all the quietness inside my chest, I feel a little bit of pride in what I’ve done. I don’t know if I worked hard, but I did work to make it here. I used to write to… offload all the depression I felt, deep inside of me. All of the self-hatred and the anger that I held towards my family and my friends. I wanted to spell disgust on my body in crimson red.

I have a lot of work to do. Even now I have a lot of work to do. I’ve always been scared of never feeling fulfilled by anything – of having to constantly seek validation to prove to myself that I wasn’t worthless. But recently, just today, actually, I’ve kind of gotten a little bit of hope.

– If people can genuinely like me for me as a friend

– if I can put in the effort and get something out

– if I can innovate and excavate and think and create

all this suffering, all the hardship, all of my loneliness and sadness

meant something. It meant something, it meant something it meant something and for once I’m kind of feeling happy.

Who am I?


Spun sonnets from sorrow,
like a long-worn pair of boots, I’ve been walking.
Holes in each sole, her eyes,
& I, with walls talking
crossed hearts, crass words.

Tomorrow I will learn to breathe yet again,
in eight-or-nine-lettered pauses,
I, *breathe*,
I love you,
you were everything I wanted.

But you
love me.

Left me recovering in a three step process,
the nights we spent together, I processed,
and progressed to remember the lies you left on my skin.

“I… I think I love you.”
You only loved him in the bedroom.
And if we’d had room to talk and think,
I think you would have known.

And I? Still, I would have loved you.