There is no excerpt because this is a protected post.
When I am depressed, I cannot move. And right now, as I write this, six days have passed since I felt myself falling into it. The problem is placed. What, I wonder, must the solution be? What must I do when I cannot move?
Made from the rib of man, made by God to cleave to man, you are all soft insides and secret smiles and loud laughter. You beautiful, coveted creature, I beg you: do not make yourself less. You are made for more.
There was a buang in the old house on Mahogany Street.
In Palu, Indonesia, the death toll of more than 1400 people continues to rise as rescue efforts turn out unfruitful. And there is nothing I can do about that.
Your high school best friend was the first person to validate sadness for you— to ascertain its existence, its being.
She was eight when she learned that nothing good ever came out of eavesdropping.
Constrained by the pressures of life and learning, I feel as if I have no time at all to write. Shackled to my responsibilities, tethered by my moral belief that I have to do my responsibilities, I cannot write.
“i don’t like them
they’re all i seem to make”
I wrote this poem while I was eating out alone. The seat across me was empty, and I felt a lack, somehow.