Sticky post
I think I’ve been waiting to write something revolutionary. Something that brings tears to the masses and healing to the few. Something that makes it so that I’m finally understood, known within and without, and before having to share too much. I’ve been staring at blinking cursors and blank pages, napkins and paper bags, receipts and rationed sticky notes. Wishing my words would write themselves, … Continue reading alright.
Sticky post
trader joe’s tulips and goodwill vases are the only excuses I have to get out of the house anymore.
trips to target for aquaphor and rides to work that have been slowly adding up, mile by mile, minute by minute.
I don’t think I believe in a singular higher power, but I wish I did. I wish I could believe that someone had a plan for me. That I didn’t have to worry so much about making one for my own life, because someone else had my back, knew me enough, and wanted the best for me, to do so. Continue reading the world.
Sticky post
I have pictures on my laptop of people I don’t talk to anymore.
Their faces litter photo albums and yearbooks. They sprinkle themselves in the Snapchat memories I don’t look at and the Instagram highlights that I only recently took down. Their names are scrawled all over dedication pages and annotated books, in the envelopes of love letters and birthday cards that I’ve forgotten I saved.
Continue reading captured.
I recently realized that I may be truly terrified of the love that I crave the most.
And the realization came after I watched a rom-com with my mom, as most of my love-related realizations do.
At the place where all romantic comedies must make you believe that there is no point of return for our beloved two, the male love interest said something along the lines of, “Even if your dream man came to whisk you away, you would still turn him down, because you’re too afraid to take that risk, and admit that you feel anything real.”
Which was only just unsettling until my mom side-eyed me immediately after his delivery and inevitable march out of the scene. Then it became real, and all of a sudden I needed to use the restroom.
Continue reading love, and middle school.
In high school, I poured everything I had and hoped for into art.
Every panic attack, every failed class, it was all kept within those precious seconds on stage, in front of the blinding lights of the house seats.
It was the only time I ever felt free. The only time I could be who I truly was, because as far as I could tell, no one else was really watching.
There are many things I miss about those moments.
But there is so much more that I don’t. Continue reading escaping “art”
Writer's Cup Of Tea 