I hope you have a sweet summer,
I want you to swim fast, win the race and smile.
And while you wear that medal,
text me that you won and beat your best time.

A blooming handful of violet flowers,
The beautiful journey of being loved and lost.
A body, fragile and breakable, yet as light and magnificent as a blossomed plant.
Weeping and eroding as time progresses to the end, 

I’m back home for Chinese New Year’s and I want to know what it was like for my great-grandmother when she was little.

It is a nondescript summer day. Hot, but in the way all summer days are, entirely unremarkable on its own. My mother, ever the artist, takes one look at the sprawling canvas of blues and grays and browns before her, so at odds with the outside world, and decides it needs remedying.

Characterized by lingering sadness and nostalgia following the recent end of a great story or series.

Athazagoraphobia (Fear of being forgotten) 

Worth 
/wəːθ/

Adjective: 

A: equivalent in value to the sum or item specified. 

I.

This is what it feels like to die.

I can’t grapple with – understand, process, comprehend – the fact that I am, by all evidence against me, very mentally ill. I am sick. I am weak and guilty. There is something – a variety of things – wrong, here. My mother is published in numerous medical journals.

I. The sun dipped below the horizon; I clutched my grandma’s hand a bit tighter. She had turned sixty-seven that day, I was a mere ten. We strolled through the old neighbourhood, the streets lined with trees bearing shiuli flowers, their fragrant aroma hanging in the air.

A man walked down cold, desolate streets wearing nothing but a patched up hoodie and ill-fitting boxers. He didn’t know how he had gotten those clothes. He wasn’t sure how he would explain them to his wife. Admittedly, he probably wouldn't have to. Little chance she would care.

When I dance for the kitchen window, the mirror it becomes in the dark, I become shapeless. Like my soul feels. No longer a female body—or male—but an artform; my representation of authenticity.

It was mid-November, 1983 when James first got sick. It started with a dry cough and exhaustion; in all ten years that Edward had been with him, the occasional affliction was nothing out of the ordinary.

She was the epitome of fragile beauty: lips slightly parted, rosy flush tinting the apples of her cheeks, raven hair framing her face. I knelt there, holding her wrist, touching the papery skin that shielded her blue-green veins. A ball of unshakeable guilt weighed down my chest.

Oftentimes, it’s said that people make a home, not the place.

My feet bounced as I waited in the dimly lit examination room. The dark curtains blocked out any hints of sunlight, the only light source being the single fluorescent lamp standing in the center of the room.

In all her many years, the woman did not think she ever witnessed anything as ugly as rain. It wasn’t just the way it stuck to the ground, leaving muddy piles all over the city, littering the sidewalks with grime and built-up trash.

Lilith used to bite her tongue when men talked to her, because her responses would end up hurting her more than the bit of blood.

Lilith wore layers of clothes as armor, wrapping yards of cloth around her body, but even the plainest garments wouldn’t stop the attention.

Mother and Daughter: A Collection of Phrases

I hate you.

I’m so sorry, Mommy.

…

I love you.

Stop jumping all over me, baby! You’re like sticky rice.

Prologue:

I

On a Thursday at the edge of summer and autumn, when constellations studded the sky, I carried a cup of tea into my study. It was a beautiful cup, hand-painted with buds about to burst into flowers.

A myriad of rushing footsteps erupt in the floor above; an orchestra of screeching and tapping performed by the disordered unison of business shoes and office furniture ...

The second time I got married was the happiest day of my life. It was illegitimate and secretive. It was born of utter foolishness, but the joy that filled my heart that day was unrivaled by anything done before the eyes of the familiar.

You are trapped.

One day you awoke: a homunculus, immersed in a deep chasm of dark. You wander the confines in solitude, following the faint and ever-so-often beep that resonates through your lonely chamber.

“You want to join us?” She asks.

Before she knows me. Before she learns not to.

I shake my head. Tell her I’m happier inside with Caroline.

Letters 4-4 A.D.

“Supersoaker, LG Smart Refrigerator,” par II

I hope you enjoyed my soliloquy. And I know you did--your mouth is practically open right now. Practically open... Yeah. I'm jotting that down.

Jessie’s nights have been difficult for as long as she can remember.

In the mid-to-late 19th century, the city of Paris was undergoing a change. The process was called Haussmannization, and it was a campaign for the modernization of Paris.

He sat quietly, as he always did, in the living room, upon his large grey sofa, his mug resting on the large grey table, and all of the furniture in that large grey room rested peacefully atop a large grey carpet that absorbed the gradual ageing of his living there.

The ink darkens, leeching my energy as I trace an index over the text. A rejection letter from California Institute of the Arts, and best regards. No better than every other art academy who also shelved my portfolio.

The letter lands neatly in the bin. I stalk to my studio.