There are people who you learn to fear and then there are some who you know you should fear. It wouldn’t take a genius to figure out where Rosy aunty fit in.
There’s so much history found between secondhand books and dusty cassettes, immortalizing the voices of the dead.
Life isn’t a Jane Austen novel and I’m not a doting protagonist.
In two months, this blog turns six years old. And yes, I’m as surprised as you are.
I’m about as violent as the pastel shades used to color something pure and beautiful.
I can’t forge happy endings, but I refuse to be the sad story that my poetry recites.
I held a wilting flower in my hand
as it told me how I inspired it to die.
We found romance, between secondhand books that, once smelled like love.
What more should I pay, to claim back what’s rightfully mine?