Dear Dallas,

I don’t think I can ever survive this.

It has been exactly seven days, eight hours, and twenty-five minutes since you implicitly dumped me. Since then I can only ever think about you and how you whispered sweet nothings in my ear. How you called me your queen. Or how you patted the top of my head and kissed my forehead when we were freezing our asses off at my place.

You don’t understand how this little break of yours has affected me. Lately I have found myself at a loss for words. It does not make sense because I always have words for everything, even if I am under so much pressure. I cannot write about anything other than you.

I am terrified that you are not coming back but I am also frightened that I will spending a good amount of my time waiting for someone who has no intention of coming back.

I guess I am writing not to beg for you to come back. I want you to give me a concrete answer. I want you to be sure this is what you want because when I get back to my senses and realize that I have been watering a dead flower all this time, there is no turning back.

Is that what you’re waiting for? That I hit my head on the pavement and suddenly I come back as an empowered woman with the highest sense of self and will not take shit from confused guys like you? A lady who knows her place, who wouldn’t budge at the sight of a boy who wants to have a taste of all the candy in the store? A person who cares about rights and the oppressed and not about who says I love you first or the minutes it took for you to reply?

I’m exhausted, Dallas. Really exhausted and confused and hurt and it’s fucking impossible to move forward when a part of me is still with you. Either you give it back and tell me it’s over or you come back and stay for the long haul.

Make up your mind.



On Ned Vizzini

Ned Vizzini committed suicide. It wasn’t suicidal ideation anymore. He killed himself.

I don’t want to make this about me. Mr. Vizzini does not know me personally but his story touched my fucked up brain so much. You have no idea how much.

I read It’s Kind of a Funny Story when I was in a dark place. I spent nights and days thinking about killing myself. Every fucking way out I could think of, I wrote in a small notebook. I wanted to go but I wanted to go properly. I did not want to hurt more than I already was. I wanted a way out.

I was tired of hearing about the It gets better! bullshit. And then I stumbled upon a copy of It’s Kind of a Funny Story at a local secondhand bookstore.

Reading it was so cathartic. It did not make me want to kill myself. Although it did not make me want to live. It made me hold on. I thought, Ned is here. It might not get better but at least he is here.

Except now he isn’t.

I still don’t know how to process that. It’s daily work, living. And when every person you are looking up to for hope or strength or just someone who survived the torment of hearing the mocking voices gets fewer and fewer you get to thinking: Maybe things get better. But maybe not here? Certainly not here.

You are already missed, Ned Vizzini. I hope it was worth it.

Boy Trouble

Dear K,

I’m writing under pretense that I am not hurt or destroyed. Let’s just pretend I am not. I did not know if I should tell you this in person or through writing but decided to write since I am much more better with written words.

I met a boy. There always is. He is the most intelligent, mature, and philosophical person I have met in my almost 25 years of existence. When I think of him, it’s like muscle memory. I know every feature his face has. His big brown eyes. His slightly freckled cheeks. His short, skinny fingers. The way the light nestles on the peaks of his sunburnt face.

He smells like home. His crooked smile is the best freaking smile I have witnessed. He held my hand three times; my fat, stubbly fingers fit snuggly with his. It is heaven just thinking about it. I don’t even want to forget this feeling.

Backstory: We met on the Internet. We have discussed a couple of stupid things along with socio-political issues I rarely talk about with anyone. He made me feel safe to express myself and that made me incredibly happy. He went here in February 2013 to join an international art convention and we met. Three times. He is a joy and pleasure to be with. We talked over coffee and dinner and beer. We’re friends and that’s what friends do – friends hang out. Long story short, he had to go back home. The emails and the conversation continued which is pretty cool.

In September 2013, he told me he likes me. Like really, properly like me. It felt like I had found my person. Finally, I thought. I did not mind the transatlantic friendship, not really. We stayed in like. I like that. I did not ask for anything more. What we had was enough. Until today.

He told me he has to “get off the face of the earth.” What that means, I don’t know. Maybe he’s trying to hide? “I have a lot on my plate. I need to decompress. Sorry.” That was what he said.

I asked, “How long will you be gone?” He said, “Not long.” But it already feels like an eternity. I have not found my person and now I am terrified to beg him to stay with me, just me, even for a bit longer. That maybe he is just a little confused.

I want to remind the Universe that he needs me more than I need him, not the other way around.

I don’t know but with him, it’s different. We do not have a concrete grasp of what our relationship is and obviously for some people that is a red flag, but I don’t feel that way. Is there something wrong with me?

Am I reading into this so much more than a normal person would? It really hurts. And I miss him so damn much. I just want him to come back. I really, really need that to happen.



It only occurred to me today that love is an addiction. Speaking from experience, I can compare my kind of loving to my nicotine addiction.

The very thought of it did not scare me. How could it? It is so tiny. No, a stick that short is not my ticket to the afterlife, I thought.

A person so pale and warm and freckled and with the saddest brown eyes cannot hurt me. His short but skinny fingers fit snugly with mine so how can it be the cause of my demise?

So I jump. That is the most logical thing to do when you do not know what is better.

I put the thing that is continuously killing millions of people between my chapped lips and I breathe in the smoke. I let that smoke linger in my lungs for a couple of seconds and I exhale with a royal grace and that makes me smile.

I let the brown eyed man through the metaphorical walls I built throughout the years. He flinches ever so slightly when our pinkies touch for a second. That triggers something inside me. That makes me think he is the most fragile person in the planet and he needs me more than I need him.

The days pass and I get used to taking five minute breaks to be alone with my cigarette stick. When I am stressed at work. When I get to the grisly part of a new thriller novel. When there is nothing else to do. I smoke and smoke and smoke.

The brown eyed man became my confidante. My partner in crime. The missing puzzle piece. Every day I can see clearly – he is The One.

I need him more than he needs me.

You would not know what you got yourself into until you are slumped in a chemotherapy lazy boy along with five people you have no intention of getting to know. When the words are said and you are left with nothing but a memory. When you are on your death bed and you regret every single stick you put between your lips. When you are lost and the only thing that can rescue you is a pack of menthols and kiss from a brown eyed man with pale and freckled skin.


Bad Day

It was a bad day and I want to get drunk but why would I get wasted when I can wallow in self pity sober? That way I can feel the pain in all its gloriousness.

See this is what I am good at: hurting myself to the point of not caring about the repercussions. Take that, optimism.

I wish I can write about something other than this pain but it is all I’ve got. Thank you, Universe.

But maybe tomorrow will be better than today. Maybe not. Let’s not get all up on that biz because caring is not cool.

Daily Prompt: Land of Confusion

A time when I felt really out of place was in high school. I never belonged – not to a single person, not to a group of friends, not to a person.

I was often seen roaming the grounds alone because I never made friends in high school. Sure, there were times I hung out with five skinny girls who talked about boys and fashion but that wore me out. I was not interested in either boys or fashion. I am an introverted fat kid, have you met me?

Back then I liked performance art (I still do) and music and anime. I am partial to staying in on a Friday night instead of going to parties. It made me uneasy that my bullies were breathing the same air as I did. The thing is: I haven’t found my people yet.

And I happy to announce that yes, I have found them, and yes, it was worth the wait.

Written for The Daily Post.

Daily Prompt: Love to Love You

My favorite person of all is halfway across the world from me. He does not even know he is my favorite person. It sounds so complicated when put like that but to be brutally honest, I do not care anymore. Unlike my seventeen-year-old self, I overcame my fear of feeling. And that’s the thing I love most about my favorite person: he allows me to feel.

shinji moon

He is kind, dark humored and a spaz which I like. He encourages me to find the truths about myself and life in general I am so thirsty to know about. He does not judge me for the mistakes I have committed and the ones I am continuously making. His smile and his voice take me home. He is home.

What do you do when your favorite person’s favorite person is not you?

When I saw this I wanted to break things. I hurt a little. But I know that I am not in the position to hurt. I love and it is such a beautiful thing. I do not need to feel ashamed or guilty about it.

warsan shire

My favorite person and I share the same belief when it comes to loving and accepting oneself. We termed it self care because looking after yourself should not be limited to physical aspects alone. It should include the habit of accepting you for who you are and embracing the things about yourself that you call flaws.

And that does not mean I love myself always. No, I have bad days, too. Sometimes there are months I have more bad days than good and that is okay. Self care is a lifelong process. Start small or not. It might sink in in a month or in four months but do not give up. There’s plenty more days to come.

Written for The Daily Post.

Apologies and Explanations

Remember when I used to write everyday? I lol when that comes to mind, but no matter, my dears. Let’s just say I am sort of back sans the promise of posting daily.

Um so I am sorry for being that person: the kind who gets terrified and then leaves. I do not know how to explain this but I have noticed that whenever I blog about my love (pre-romantic disaster) life, something bad happens. I might just be superstitious or crazy, who knows? So since batshit crazy things start to happen I became frightened of sharing.

Why am I writing about it now? Well if you must know, the boy I have been seeing in the past few months and I are not okay. I need to write about my feelings, that’s all. I guess I do not care anymore if things start falling apart. Anyway, I’m straying from the topic: I did not write because I cowered; I thought we had something that actually lasts longer than three months.

So I guess it is time to face the ridiculous and continue writing whether it is the reason of my failed relationships. I cannot be scared anymore. I’m a grown woman, I have a pair of ovaries.