To go from enforced silence to this; I feel winded. Remember, it is two days later and I am still hoarse.
Browsing: Prose
In highschool a classmate calls me a sand n—. It’s the first time I’ve heard the term, and I’m more confused by it than anything else.
He had tabs with little Cheshire Cats on them, grinning at me like they knew they’d be coming to life later on.
I want my real—well, at least not-as-fake—name on the form.
“Stop that, loser,” she says, “I dunno why you’re so nervous—all these rituals are just smoke and mirrors.”
and she turns and looks at me, an irritated sigh, you know asian people hate black people right? as if sorry to break it to you kiddo.
The language does not even offer an equivalent of the word rape.
Everyone around me thinks I have a healthy relationship with my illness (irony intended) because I’m so open about it.
Existing is easier when you think you have no ambition.
“It’s called Arabic, you dense wanker.”