Your face doesn't appear on my eyelids anymore when I close them.
I am slowly forgetting how you look.
A girl taught me to lock my front door against the past
– not to hide from it;
just until it gets tired of waiting, and leaves eventually.
Now I belong to a place where the backyard flowers bloom,
where I can't remember how smoking my morning cigarette barefoot at your doorstep felt like.
She also said to me,
"Girl you think too much. You feel too much."
I thanked her as I took a long sip of wine straight from the bottle.
Perhaps growing numb is easier than growing a new heart.
Aren't we all working on our independent woman?
I guess I am somewhere between choking on idealism and
snorting lines of a 9-5 routine of adult responsibilities.
I keep an Atlas of myself so I know where all the wounds are that my hands shouldn't touch.
We all have our own tricks, and my writings are an album of advice on coping with despair from every girl I meet.
All the quick fixes and yet I still can't recall the person I was before I met him.
My best friend said, "Maybe you should sleep with a lot of other people."
That kind of felt like watching fireworks but without the splendor.
Another girl told me maybe I should stop writing for a while.
I ended up telling the wrong things to all the wrong people.
My mother said, "Go marry a rich guy and cry in a Lamborghini
– men will always be the same, but by then you'll have money."
Never done this but perhaps I should give it a try.
Isn't this what we talk about after we talked about love?
The pills for its repercussion.
Our defense mechanism against disillusionment.
Joy can be shared but suffering demands to be endured alone.
When we have that talk we are just strangers confessing to strangers.
All these shortcuts that you might not completely agree with.
But I guess if they don't work we are still making new memories.
Ah, there's the silver lining.
At the end of the day aren't we all just trying to survive?
