After he passed away, I wrote my father a letter. In all the years we spent estranged, I never once bothered to write him anything. There were things I wrote about him, but they were never meant to be dedicated to him. Every so often, I write him another letter. It feels like life after …
Pardon my morbidness, but hasn’t 2019 felt like a decade than just the punctuation to one? The events of 2016 seem like a distant daydream in hindsight. And maybe in 2022, 2019 will feel just the same. I guess it matters on a certain point of view. It’s easy to focus on that bad. (And …
The noise is suffocating. And I can see that her ear is bothering her. And knowing the looks and whispers that will come by us getting up together, I ask her if she would like to step out for a moment. Get some fresh air. Our friends share smiles. There is some egging on. Not …
First time I killed my father, I’d just turned 20. In some whirlwind of inspiration fueled by Denis Johnson’s Jesus’ Son, I penned a short story I’d later call “David.” He died again after writing an incomplete story about a man getting dressed for his father’s funeral. And again, later that year, about a man …
I walked around my good intentions/and found there were none/I blame my father for the wasted years, we hardly talked/I never thought I would forget this hate/then a phone call made me realize I’m wrong… The nightmares come often; I just don’t talk about them. I don’t write about them. There are no entries in …
World’s such a big place when you spend your childhood looking up, searching the faces of strangers looking for familiarity. And I spent a lot of my time looking for you in the eyes of others. Wasted my youth reaching out for your hand when you kept pulling away. There’s no evidence of your departure …
