Skip to main content


She's happy can you tell?
Her eyes sparkle like the fireflies we used to chase.
My sister, my little one, my friend.
Still reminds me of bottled milk, crushed rusk and chubby cheeks. And matching frilly dresses.
Even though, now she wears crop tops and ripped jeans.
Now she drinks coffee in the morning, and eats little.
Her eyeliner is perfect.
Now she chases dreams, and love, and grown up things.
Simple, subtle and settling. No one has ever looked more beautiful.
If everything disappears from this world, let her smile be last.
How I fear that it may fade.
I've prayed so much for this smile to exist, back when I believed in God.
In front of her big brown eyes, I still do. I'd do anything not to see her cry again (like that time I told her Santa wasn't real).
I'll even allow myself believe for a moment, in something, anything she finds hope in.
I haven't seen her in more than two years. The memory of her soft hugs is starting to fade and crushed rusk doesn't actually taste that good with milk.
We'll never wear matching frilly dresses again. I hope.
I am still chasing fireflies.
Soon we'll meet again, in a small village in the south and we will walk arm in arm down the cobbled streets. We will sit by the church and we will talk about boys, and mothers, and other stressful things.


Popular posts from this blog

The Prospect of Being Happy

I'm on medication that will make me myself again. The doctor said. But I
Don't know who to expect
to see
in the small mirror on top of my dresser
with polaroids of my best friend and I.
These medications,
Will make me myself again
The self I was
Before the illness started.
A self too young
To even have friends.
When I'm okay again,
will I still be a writer?
When I'm okay again
will I... really... Be ok?

Just add water.

I wrote a book about you, and the grey concrete that gave life to me. The dead cement, the rough surface that scratched my knees and made them bleed. The hot asphalt, glittering at the touch of sunrays that warmed my veins until blood would overflow and pour out of me like some gory scene in a horror movie only, much brighter. It gave life to me.
I wasn't born out of fertile earth or wrapped in sweet greens, I was, very much, a child of mud, sweat and dust. Tirana, this vicious parent with bullets between its teeth and a bleeding tongue.
Tirana this prison of sorts, beautiful, and charming and disturbed. My bipolar hometown, my little slice of hell. How I miss it. It gave life to me and slipped a pen between my fingers and a taboo between my legs and it told me to choose.
I do not think about taboos father, I am too careless, too temperamental for that. I am rough inside like the hot concrete that birthed and raised me.
I stare down, from a window up on the fifth floor of a pre…

The other one

Her reflection glooms late in the morning and early afternoons of long summer days in England. Like a dark cloud, her existence rains over me, showers my wisdom away.  I was wise...I think. 
When I look at her, when everybody looks at her, she is the perfect imperfection. She is the shining light in the lambs eye, the glistening of tiny waves in a vast calm sea. She is beauty.  Her reflection darkens around me in the gloomy wake of my soul. It shadows my insides like there is nothing left. I am the walking dead. 
She is beautiful. I hate beautiful. But yet, I love her, I resign to my fated collision with her. I am her's, belonging, praying, kneeling at her ruthless beauty. The more I try to escape it, the more she enters me and shadows me.  I have no wisdom, no talent, no love left. 
Her beauty rains over me, showers me away.