ً

i feel very small. i don't understand. i have so much courage, fire, energy for many things, yet i get so hurt, so wounded by small things.

i'll hang his head over my bed. only then can i get up in the morning without having a nightmare.

but when someone's gone and you're the primary keeper of their memory —— letting go would be a kind of murder, wouldn't it? i had so much love for them, even if it was a complicated love, and where is all that love supposed to go?

he cried, he yelled, he laughed. he insulted me and called me cold; the next moment, he praised me and told me i was the best in the world.

this story will always be happening. when you look at your hands, you think of your mother. when you stand at the mirror, your father looks back.