Love
-
Happiness. It’s such an odd thing. Such a weird, fickle, terrifying thing, really. We spend our whole lives hunting it down like it’s the answer to everything. Essentially, it is. Isn’t that the true purpose of this one life we are given on this big blue ball floating around the galaxy? Eh, perhaps. I’m sure
-
I find greeting cards dull and unimaginative. They try, they really do try. They do come close to the essence of human emotion. I think, perhaps the real problem is I feel everything too deeply, too sharply, in too much descriptive detail. Anytime I’ve ever bought a card for someone I have to buy one
-
The words stick in my throat. Heavy. Feeling foreign even though I utter them so freely, so frequently, so loosely daily to many of those who pass by in my life. Fear lingers around every syllable. Fear that saying it makes it real. Fear that they’ll be the next weapon of choice in the never
-
Don’t think with your heart, they tell me, you’ll just end up getting hurt. How, I wonder, am I to think with anything else? What sense is there to be made of the way your hand fits into mine? How am I to make sense of the way your eyes catch mine and I try
-
Someday my walls won’t be covered in fingerprints and dirt. Someday my laundry piles will be manageable and small. There won’t be an energetic girl doing cartwheels endlessly in my living room and bending in ways that surely are not human. There won’t be a boy eating snacks endlessly from the kitchen and speaking of
I Would Rather Be In Bed 