Diary Entries from a Fairy:
“Love is so intense, you know? There’s this feeling of someone understanding you deeply–don’t even get me started when it’s the very first time. There’s turbulence, the late nights, the promises and blind faith of you both staying together. But when I realized I wanted to be defined by the things I chose to love, the things that were always mine to begin with–life and mornings got easier. Plus, it’s comforting to know that love always comes back to you in a different form, a different person, a new hobby, or a second home.”
Birthday ingredients:
Tears
Banana Bread
The Bible
Rage
A Pink Diary
Crunchy red grapes
Belly laughs with my girls
Something perfectly rolled
Confession
I turn twenty-two in a few days and I feel so slanted and chopped off. I’m waiting for the rules of the rest of my life to arrive on an ashtray.
It feels impossible to obtain a pair of wings or a cup of coffee that never gets cold. I don’t even like coffee but if it’s a brew or Vietnamese– then I guess it’ll do.
I’m so sick of becoming me over and over again. It’s like my heart is a mixing bowl and I’m placed right in the middle of this God-made cast.
I’m deciphering what type of person I want to be and what kind of love is meant to be mine. I’m realizing what kinds of fabrics sit well under my skin, and I finally understand why I wanted to crash my car a few years ago.
This whole ordeal of being a woman gives me distress and dandruff.
My scalp is flaky with change. My lungs are burnt with loss.
Although I hate change–change gave me clean water to swim in, instead of sitting by a diving board looking over cherry wine. Change gave me honey for the deprived beehive in the back of my brain.
I was once told, “I think you’re passionate about being a good friend,” right before being broken up with.
This statement infuriated me because I don’t think I’m passionate at all. I don’t think I’m passionate about anything–but I know that I’m real and I know who I am. My entire life is made up of prose. I’m trying to be alive, poetic, and compassionate.
Truth for me—became so amplified with the more candles I blew out and the more friends that I continuously hugged. Everything that I know is a touch away from change–and love is work. Love is a choice, it isn't just passion.
Things end. New plants grow. Nothing is ever lost, and with hope, things can still be found.
I’m holding onto the dust that falls from the stars. I’m sifting it into a bottle and locking it away. I’ll need it eventually when I no longer know where to go, but it helps if I have it. It helps if it’s here.
I’m a sweetheart and I have potential. I gotta believe this to continue wishing.
