Cuts and Cracks
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Coastal Memories Short Story: A Brief Father–Daughter Moment
Our ancestors must’ve liked the coast — Portugal, lighthouse blood. We laughed. Then jumped to my nephew like we’d changed the channel. No deep dives. Just surface-level brilliance. Two people casually coasting through legacy — and surprisingly, enjoying the ride.
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The Addiction to Being Liked
The obsession with being liked is a leech at a blood buffet—bloated, done, and dead. You? Still left dizzy and emotionally anaemic. I used to beg for approval. Now? I like churros. And I don't care if churros like me back. Welcome to the era of not being Wi-Fi—because I’m not for everyone, and I’ve finally made peace with it.
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Raw Emotional Self-Reflection: Leastinterested, A Reader Who Wasn’t
Library runs were my performance art. Surrounded by readers of romance, thrillers, and law, I chose cartoons and snacks. While everyone grew up citing novels, I memorized funeral listings and shop names. This is for the ones who never read the books, but still wrote their own damn story.
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Healing with Sarcasm – Raw Blog on Grief & Emotional Recovery
Something pulled me back today. A scar I wasn’t planning to touch. So I’ll write around it—for now—with sarcasm and survival. This isn’t the romcom version of healing. It’s just all of me. The messy kind.
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Quiet Strength Reflection: Some Mornings Are for Surviving, Not Sharing
A letter to the mornings that come with weight. No advice, no bright sides. Just survival, silence, and maybe… the smallest sense of peace.
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Grey Hour Poem – Stillness, Dusk, and the Ache Before Sadness
Not quite sadness—just the ache that comes before it. The hour of still things.
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When Silence Is the Wound: A Story of Emotional Abandonment
There’s a story I never let go of — not because I wanted to hold it, but because it never stopped holding me. I howled, not for saving, but for acknowledgment. What I got was silence. And maybe, just maybe, I did play the victim — but only to the one I hoped would finally see me.
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Bubbly Regret: Served Cold, Crashing Fast
F*ck. Beer was a terrible idea. Two sips in and my body exits the chat like it’s allergic to joy.
