I have a weakness for an intense, almost unsettling gaze. It captures my attention beyond any other markers of conventional attractiveness.

But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you? - Kazuo Ishiguro in his Nobel prize acceptance speech, 2017

In the Name of Poetry The world isn’t always poetic, my mother tells me today. I shrug and keep writing because I’m convinced the entire world is poetic if you capture the essence of it subtly like a paintbrush on blank canvas, or the way my diamonds reflect the sun at midday. I use these poems to solidify memories, to firmly cement the brutal history of my heart so the world cannot kill me again, it can only look back at me like this which doesn’t hurt as much, I think.

Woke up today with the realization that I’m fucking crazy. Absolutely unhinged. A ticking bomb.

Code Blue in Room 6109 I grieve in fragments / Outside the hospital window An obscure gray fog

Will be gone for a little over a week, see you all soon! ⚡️

I’ve lost a lot in the past two years. The sun is finally starting to shine again. I’m happy.

Also: the rich and famous are more cursed than blessed. I don’t envy them. Imagine having to live the rest of your days being surrounded by sycophants and leeches trying to get clout or favors. Reminds me of when Kim K was irrelevant and copied everything Paris Hilton did until she got famous herself. It’s even worse for single men who have to fight off gold-diggers at every turn. View quoted note →