Letters

On some days (today) I get so angry, I could cry.

read my poetry, love my poetry, consume my poetry, marry my poetry, be swallowed and buried in my poetry

And now my big girl job is slowly killing my small girl creativity

No cos who on earth feels slept by 9pm? Weakling.

I feel like I am in between “what do you want to be” and “when you grow up” and both of them are crushing me to bits.

I am chronically obsessed with having an aesthetic

Another day to read my writing and be like “girl you wrote this?” admirably.

I comfort myself with “one day I’ll be a person”, because this cannot be the life and mind of a full normal person.

I know it’s a privilege to feel my feelings intensely and all but like can I take a break? my heart is so heavy Lord

On some days (today) I get so angry, I could cry.

I am entering my lover girl era and I’m so excited for the possibilities that comes with it (the poemsssss)

I am such a tired tired human

After all, to be an artist is to have a lifelong relationship with your deepest feelings, whether pleasing or excruciating.

The fact that a wave of sentences and poetic hyperboles could hit me at 3 pm on my worst days or choose to desert me on my 19th birthday, seems to me like torture rather than bliss.

I cannot guarantee that a daughter of mine will not despise her breathing.