The Day I learned my body was a commodity

i fuck you in hopes to keep my secrets safe in the folds of your skin
but i fear i know where you go 
when your mind holds you hostage

i can see your fingers tangled in the remains of her innocence
though you know the only way out
is to fuck her
and i wonder
in the midst of the moment
can your ears
hear the whispers
of my long lost
can she taste my shame on your tongue?

i beg of you to kill the messenger as
our bodies begin to mangle
and in the weight of the ruins
your goosebumps transformed into braille
so we can longer
make love
without feeling confession
the misplaced emotions entrenched 
in my story
that i tried so hard
to tuck away
in your crevices.

My Sub(un)conscious Entries

my life resembles that of a
located at the center 
this years world’s fair

my lover is on stilts
i can not hear him
unless i look up

my sister sells
cotton candy
to domestic feminists
underage alcoholics
overage men addicted to
crystallized sugar

my life resembles that of a 
and each time
i attempt to
change my point of view
my necks
gets stuck
to a foam wall
kept together
with electric tape

and i think to myself
well, at least something
i am attached to
has energy

Flirting With Depression: The Problem With Suicide Hotlines



The suicide of Robin Williams is one of those permeating cultural events that’s more than just the loss of a performer who meant so many things to so many generations. The nostalgic old remember his “nanu nanus,” the Gen X’ers “O! Captain,” Millennials his fire boobs. But Williams’ passing isn’t just a feelings bomb – it’s another forum to discuss the perils of mental illness. 

Every time a celebrity dies, there’s a broad spectrum of response. There are the bitter survivors (“my dad died and no one cared, why should I care about this dude?”), the over-compensators (“blank meant absolutely everything to my life and I’m DEVASTATED #cryingforever”), the observant genuflectors (“YouTube link or obscure quote from one of their most under-loved performances”), the simple mourners (“RIP + picture of celeb looking wistful”), and so on. And all of these reactions are valid. The way we mourn runs parallel to the other ways we live and react; fluid or broken, bombastic or silent. There’s no right way to reflect. 

But when the cause of death is suicide, the chasm bursts and the response is something much harder to define and mitigate. Depression is personal, an illness all of us have either experienced personally or witnessed first-hand. And there’s an inherent desire to say something relevant in its wake. 

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Candlelit faces #sketch#pencil#nofilter#candlelight (at Winky & Blinky’s Castle)

Love was something I would not have to worry about - the whole mystery of love, heartbreak songs, and family legends. Women who pined, men who went mad, people who forgot who they were and shamed themselves with need, wanting only to be loved by the one they loved. Love was a mystery. Love was a calamity. Love was a curse that had somehow skipped me, which was no doubt why I was so good at multiple-choice tests and memorizing poetry. Sex was a country I been dragged into as an unwilling girl - sex, and the madness of the body. For all that it could terrify and confuse me, sex was something I had assimilated. Sex was a game or a weapon or an addiction. Sex was familiar. But love - love was another country.
— 出典:― Dorothy Allison, Two or Three Things I Know for Sure


August 1, 1944:  Anne Frank Writes Her Final Diary Entry

On this day in 1944, Jewish victim of the Holocaust, Anne Frank, wrote her final diary entry.  In it, she wrote, “[I] keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would like to be, and what I could be, if…there weren’t any other people living in the world.” Her diary, later published under the title, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl, detailed the two years that she and her family spent in hiding.

Three days after this entry, Anne and her family were arrested by the Gestapo, the German police. She was eventually placed in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, where she was killed by typhus at age 15.

Explore Frank’s writing in the Masterpiece film inspired by Frank’s life, The Diary of Anne Frank.

Photo: Anne’s diary on display at the Anne Frank Zentrum in Berlin, Germany. Wikimedia Commons

what an experience to have listened to aeroplane over the sea while being in her home. i almost felt honored, but in an awful way riddle with so much grief and anger. 


Anxiety is like perpetually hearing the boss/enemy music but never seeing the threat.


The Girl You Lost To Cocaine by Sia from her fourth album Some People Have Real Problems.


See I’ll Never Get Laid
While I’m Running Your Life