is it a pinch that keeps you up, or coffee that proves you’re dreaming?
Cold and alone, I watch the world spin on its axis
biding my time, biding my time.
Loneliness engulfs me like
a schizophrenic’s madness
and it repeats in my mind:
Why am I alive why am I alive why am I alive…
How am I still wishing the tears in my ducts
would drown every inch of air in my lungs?
How am I drooling at the thought
that my sandwich’s knife can also spread
the blood down my arms
like it does this store-bought
“But I did everything you told me to!”
I got a job paying $10.50 per sixty minutes of labor,
so where is my happiness?
I found a person who can fuck me hard and love me softly,
so where is my happiness?
I cut my hair for all the binaries on Instagram to tap out
to symbolize their love for me,
so where is my goddamn happiness?
I eat nothing, and have a small stomach like the celebrities,
I hug my friends and fuck my coworkers,
I have checked every. single. box.
on the list of “Things Needed to be Happy”
where the fuck is my happiness…
I’m crying. I’m crying. I cry,
“Is it a state of mind?”
You are the world after the rain has drenched the sidewalks into grey.
I am sun-kissed heat that floods inside lilac drapes on an August morning.
You carry the weight of your decisions, schedules, goals, and worries on your back like its a snowflake stuck on your sweater.
I let my cares and wonders and memories and experiences float around me like bubbles blown from my baby sister’s toy gun.
You are subtle and quiet with your affection, but you are a loud roar with your good intentions and the truth–cold or sweet.
I am an open chest of sweet nothings and loving you, but I stay meek and mild when the presence of honesty and the future pervades us, surrounding us.
You are the real world, eating cynicism for breakfast and using a microscope to magnify your view of humanity,
while I am a fairytale who believes in the goodness of the human spirit, putting on rose-colored glasses before leaving to work in the morning.
You are not me.
I am not you.
we stay dancing on eggshells together
we can laugh and touch and kiss with purity and grace
we are still here in each other’s unknown, unfamiliar universes
we complete each other
Drunk on sugar
we laughed mercilessly
of crushes and high heels
and how silly it is
that grown-ups want to go back to being kids.
Drunk on beers
we flirt tenderly
enjoyed fucking and the night sky
and how exciting it is
that grown-ups can live with their best friends.
Drunk on wine
we contemplate meticulously
of capitalism and real estate
and how terrifying it is
that grown-ups are what we have become.
I see you, I drink you.
Wondering how lucky I am to grow up with my best friend
turned to lover, turned to my other,
together taking on the world of grown-up bills, and pills, and thrills.
Drunk on love
we breathe deeply
warm smiles, light hearts, tender skin,
with the word “invincible” in our eyes
and how magical it is
that us grown-ups can still be kids.
Kids in love. Forever in love.
Strange how much you can count on a stranger
How easy words, stories, memories, and opinions can flow from your mind to their ears
I met you two weeks ago.
Why does it seem like it’s been two decades?
we met in a café
spoke amateur french and I spilt tea on my lap
his fiery heart and head
laughed and smiled and felt
’til the end of the night
a month felt like years
February had to be
the shortest of them all
is the length bitter, or sweet?
I thought I loved him
my heart wants to burst, expand, constrict, and yell
my eyes fall under pressure and pipes break
everything he is feels right, but it’s all wrong
I left him.
Because I didn’t accept all his body, mind, soul, life.
not worth it.
Life is too short.
Goodbye, my friend,
and ’til the end,
When nostalgia triumphs over insomnia,
I wonder which one wills me awake:
is it a mild outlier in my slumber cycle
is it remnants of a simpler time
when sleep felt like the end
robbed of my idyllic child-ness,
I don’t dread sleep as the end.
It’s the end of worry, end of woe, end of life’s warfare
that is sleep.
About a year ago–give or take–I read The Kite Runner. I was knocked off my literary feet. Today, I finished A Thousand Splendid Suns after about five days of rigorous, incessant binge-reading. And I fell in deep, relentless love.
Your novels are celebrated in high school (and further, presumably) education to such a high extent that there is no need for a simple fanatic like me to tell you how crafty, imploring, daring, and passionate your writing is. You are a superb writer. But my intent is not to bore you with appraisal (well, is it really praise coming from a child like me?).
After finishing your second novel, I have been overcome with a fierce desire to tell you how much your writing has done for me.
You make me rediscover the power of words every time I turn a new page. Your writing style forced my eyes to leak out sympathetic tears for the characters alive in the stories–I’m convinced they are real, no matter how much I know they are fictional fabrications. The interwoven beauty of The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns are crafted in perfect syncopation that it’s as if Dat So La Lee herself took your words and made the most seamless and envied basket of her lifetime. I loved every bit, every sadness, every plot twist, every tragedy, every regret, every sacrifice, and every beautiful example of love. I can’t remember the last time I cried so deeply than when I wept for Mariam as Laila read Jalil Khan’s final letter.
I’ve tried writing this letter in many forms that would express perfectly how much I enjoyed and cherished the stories you have masterfully shared with us. It’s difficult for me to choose words that describe exactly the amount of admiration and gratitude I have for your novels, as well as your refreshing writing capabilities. Not all of us can have an immaculate ability to write like you do.
Your stories are magic. I thank you deeply for making me feel again.
Reading from your novels remind me why I am in college studying English, and why I will always pursue my dreams of someday being a published author. I want to touch lives and minds the way you have forever grasped mine. The power of words, to me, is a great and noble weapon that I work to sharpen daily. I am in debt to you for inspiring me to wield it.
Admirably, gratuitously, and sincerely yours,
Quote unquote real art
does not require the ear of Mozart
or the hand of Matisse
let alone the ethereal worth of St. Pete
No, friends; art is all the consumers’
judged by the heart of the viewers.
More often than not
we forget that those that are “real”
are purposed solely on making us
Two strangers as in love as sight allows them to be
found meaning through one another’s hands,
one another’s heads,
one another’s hearts.
Ineffable, tyrannical, undeniable love.
Alas, the devil that is distance
clouds the space
between their beating souls
between their loving touch
between their minds afloat.
Here’s the reality:
Some people can do it, others simply can’t.
I applaud both parties.
But isn’t it the worse pain,
when longing for someone is
not someone after all?
At least those who love afar,
What kind of long distance relationship
is one with no one on the other end?