Author’s Note

Every writer lives for the impetuous acts of the heart, mind, and hand.

It is an impulse that enables us, as feeling thinkers, to do what we do. It is in these very moments we feel our veins pump with ink and meaning, desperately dressing our wounds with paper despite knowing it will never be enough to patch the surge of blood.

But we continue in hope that this may stand as evidence that we were once here – living and existing in this moment – feeling what only words can make us understand.

♡ ♡ ♡

If one must profess love, in any way imaginative or conventional, one must know what love is or at least believe enough that one could perceive a fraction of what it could be.

Jumping Hearts

This is the life she wishes to keep: a life where you are able to love every person in any encounter.

Clown Culture

English, I wish to drown in your words.

Make me a vessel that overflows with your meaning

So my forefathers may know it too.

The Process of Becoming

I love you even though we can’t distinguish our pronouns and even more so because of it.
Not a Phase, Just a Way of Life

Incomplete,
unfinished,
wistfully waiting for time to make perfect what is not.

A Familiar Face

Language protects but it also imprisons.

Zhī Jiān

Gun wounds,
Battle scars,
Defective organs.

He had body parts he long parted with before I had the chance to meet any of them.

Late Mourning

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