personal prose

My sadness has never amounted to anything close to beautiful.

There is nothing beautiful about looking at yourself through the bathroom mirror asking yourself to hold it together and there is nothing beautiful about sitting on your bedroom floor hating yourself for all the people who couldn’t love you right.

There is nothing beautiful about drinking until you can’t even feel your fingertips because you’re trying to forget. There is nothing beautiful about spilling blood and vodka on your white t-shirt because you couldn’t hold it together anymore.

There is nothing beautiful about leaping in front of fast cars on empty streets because you’re running out of breath and there is nothing beautiful about your bestfriend dragging you out of the street when you think you’re ready to die.

There is nothing beautiful about not being able to get out of bed for days or snorting cocaine with boys who never learn your last name but you do it anyways because you feel a little less empty, because you feel nothing at all.

My sadness has never been beautiful.
It has been terrifying and ugly and messy.
But you don’t get to look at me like
I’m the problem you’re trying to fix.
Stand by me while I fix myself.

—  Stand by me while I fix myself / thewordsyouneverunderstood

trashman69 asked:

When do you think your book of short stories will hit the shelves?

Oh jeez. I don’t know. Hopefully one of these days, couple of years? Just trying to get the work into good publications and win a couple contests if I can; make the idea of a short story collection seem as attractive as possible (it seems like everyone wants novels, which is fine; I just don’t have one ready yet). 

So I guess a book of my work will come out as soon as I get an agent, a deal, and a publisher. That’s not so hard, right?


You said that our friendship meant more to you than petty boys who offered you free booze. You promised that before things got bad, you would cut the ties loose, but look where we are now; struggling to break free from this rope of our differences that is now hanging from our necks in the form of a noose.
Just a homicidal suicide. That’s just what we’ve become because you seek God at the bottom of bottles of Smirnoff, though you admit that you never quite liked the taste, if it brings you any sense of being alive, you’ll down it anyways.
I know you’re secretly seeking death though you try to assure me that you’re just trying to live while you’re alive, but you speak with this integrity that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. I hope you know that while you slowly perform your steady-set suicide, that you’re also murdering those that you’ve chosen to toss aside, including this one, this fuzzy light, that is ever so slowly fading from your life. The one who is too shocked to avert their weary, wary eyes, so they watch as a helpless ghost from the sidelines.
You told me that the drugs and the heartless boys were just a distraction from the realities of life, that they meant nothing to you. But now you prefer them to me, and now we rarely speak, because you’re too busy inhaling smoke and downing booze.
—  Dear Sarah, 7/7/15
summer 2

blue sky night is mean and pointed blue, blue sky day is cruel and open blue, in between blues say ‘forgive yourself’ and i get mad. stop going away. the blue sky smooth as the glassy interior of an eye,

old eye, scraped up from the ultra bottom of the ocean, too bitter to swallow, root of all myth !

sky doesn’t breathe. sky with its schizophrenic heartbeat. bending bodies like thin metal, deep birds and heavier bones and encase encase

you are cradled in the back of a heavy dark eye. the sky feeds on you the sky says too dirty i want to make you pure! myself as a bloodless form looking down turning shit into crowns of god &

it gives me one big secret and a bad bad smile
H.E. Francis Competition Winners

I just found out a little while ago that I was a semifinalist for the H.E. Francis writing competition! Sponsored by the Ruth Hindman Foundation and the UAH English Department, it’s a pretty impressive contest. According to the website there were hundreds of submissions, which is surprising to me only because H.E. Francis–a guy I’ve shown my love for in the past–is a somewhat underknown author. I personally wouldn’t submit to a contest if I didn’t know the work of the person it was named after, but I’m probably in the minority on that one. At any rate it’s nice to have my work recognized in some way.

Incidentally, the story I submitted, “Wayward”, has since been picked up by Bridge Eight magazine, whose second issue will be released very soon!

Three Seconds

I went to a farewell dinner held for me and a few others. We sat on low stools around low tables eating peaches and mangosteen, the government officials thanking us for out time, and us, stressing the beauty and the hospitality of our host community. A feast ensued and the tray filled with tiny glasses of白酒 made the rounds, handshakes and bows abound, while aiming for the base of each others’ glasses to show deference. And for all the laughs and promises, the most momentous moment of the evening was a single glance I shared with my principal, a look so brief and casual that even if you were present you would miss the depth and breadth of meaning in it. That accidental catch of the eye said more than recognition; I saw acceptance, I saw respect, and I saw love. It’s nothing of a surprise since I’ve always maintained a good relationship with him: he has welcomed me into his home on many occasions, gifted me tea and honey to bring home to my parents, he’s even driven me to the doctor on the back of his scooter. But there are certain duties and performances that seem required in a foreign teacher to local principal relationship, and this was not one of them. I looked up to find him crossing the room to get rice, and both our heads lowered in acknowledgment. Suddenly all our teeth were exposed, beaming over our mischievous humor and all the things we could never communicate in our native tongues.


I ask myself how can I possibly still be sad
But I think I’m not sad
I’m just bored out of my mind

Sometimes a person walks into your life and you experience so much excitement
Returning to normalcy is like falling from the sky

it’s taking me forever to stop missing the high

—  “I feel nothing” // a story a day #226 by d.yang
what is summer?

(after kikinicolepoetry & bobschofield)

summer is tan lines. summer is the smell of chlorine rubbed into your sheets. summer is laughing with the car windows rolled down. is not waking up until two in the afternoon. is long hair and sweet sticky wine stains on your shirt. summer is a Calvin Harris EP. summer is eyes wide open. summer is piling into your best friend’s car and singing about your broken heart, and your hair is in your eyes and your thighs are sticking to the seat. is the jar my grandmother has in her kitchen, marked “blessings” and how it is full. summer is ice cream melting onto your wrist. summer is reaching for another cigarette and choking it down. is an empty parking lot in the rain. is chipped nail polish. is fireworks whizzing away into the oncoming dark. how strange men look at your bare legs. moths dancing around a street lamp. lipstick on your teeth. feels like putting concealer on your dark circles because who has time for sleep? summer is sin. is cherry pie, is an open window in the middle of a thunderstorm. is forgiveness, is never forgetting. is the boy next door offering you a hit from his bong. is coffee after midnight. summer is the shape of your back on the way out of the party. is the sound of your voice in the dark. is tulips, is my mother’s laughter on the phone, is looking online for remedies to a hangover. making french toast for dinner. is johnny saying, “everyone is leaving.” is lying in bed naked with the air conditioner blasting. summer is desperate and fleeting. is a half-dressed girl waiting to be kissed. is stupid miserable hopeful. is everything we could have ever wanted.

Have you ever felt a potential love for someone?

Like, you don’t actually love them and you know you don’t, but you know you could. You realise that you could easily fall in love with them. It’s almost like the bud of a flower, ready to blossom but it’s just not quite there yet. And you like them a lot, you really do. You think about them often, but you don’t love them. You could, though. You know you could.

Date yourself in a different form. Literally date someone who treats you how you dream about being treated. Date someone who relies on you for a ride yet is late to work, or the airport, because they let you sleep in. Date someone who makes you breakfast and sets out towels for your showers. Date someone who listens to your limitless rants and actually replies with diligence. Date someone who asks you to sleep in their arms and kisses your forehead whenever they happen to wake up. Date someone who makes your favorite foods every day, but most importantly makes you work, in the morning, before bed. Date someone who puts their phone away to hang out with you, but looks at whatever pointless shit you want to show them on your phone. Most importantly, date someone who you feel comfortable existing with. Feel like you can cry and know you’ll be comforted; feel like you can throw up and know your hair will be held while your back is patted; feel like you can laugh until you pee and know you’ll be given a pair of their underwear while you continue to laugh. Date someone who’s brain speaks the same language as your brain - no questions asked. No one should be asked why they do the things they do - your significant other whom you find a home in should just know. They should just understand. Date that - date you in another form. And don’t fucking settle for less.
—  love is unconditional and 100%, nothing less. / a.w

This boy, he’s made you happier than I have ever seen you. He puts a smile on your face that I thought the last guy took with him when he walked away with a piece of your heart. He makes you laugh just that little bit louder and believe me when I tell you that he practically glows when your laughing at something he’s said.

This boy, he’s put the bounce back in your step and the love back in your heart. When your blue-eyed gaze meets his hazel stare the world seems to stop. When he kisses you one hand is on your hip and the other is in your hair and he’s holding you like you’re the most precious thing he’ll ever touch.

This boy, he’s put the joy back into your life. He’s dragged you out of one hole and promised not to pull you into another. He’s prepared to put everything, time, effort, love, into this relationship and he’s prepared to do it all for you.

Why on earth would you let something, someone, that makes you happy walk away all because another boy in another place in another time broke your heart?

And I get it, you’re scared. You’re scared you’ll fuck it up. Or you’re scared that he’ll hurt you. Or you’re scared that something will break you both beyond repair and not all the glue in the world could put you back together.

But let me tell you something. You can’t fuck it up until you try. And if you don’t try then you fucked up anyway.

—  Note to self, 22/06/2015

And just like that the weekend is over
Another week is over
days go by and by, the clock ticks on
I constantly feel like I’m waiting for something
Something to motivate me out of bed
Excitement at what life could bring

I can’t stand the thought that 30 years from now
I’d have to wake up to the same nine to five job
Everyday looking forward to another lifeless weekend to escape
Till one day I stop waking up altogether
And that’s all my life amounts to

—  “there has to be more to life than work and taxes” // a story a day #219 by d.yang
here is something the magazines and the online articles don’t tell you about recovery - there are two kinds of fear. one, is of going back, and that one, that one everyone talks about. but there is also another fear, a fear that what you did will catch up with you; that your body will betray you the same way you betrayed it; the same way you hurt it. i live with the fear that one day my body will fail and i will know i can only blame myself. i am afraid of regret, of self-hate, of guilt that never seems to wane. i am afraid that i will never be able to apologise enough to my mother, for the harm i inflicted on her daughter.
—  marina v., i wish there was a 12 step program that would help me come to terms with what i did. 

“You can do better than him.”

“Maybe I could,” she whispers as a forgotten tear traces a permanent scar down her cheek. “But maybe I don’t want better.”

—  I just want you, 21/06/2015
Why am I so bad at moving on
Every time it hurts until someone new comes along
And then I can pretend I am whole again
How sad is it I cannot find reason to love myself
Without the approval from someone else?
—  “needy” // a story a day #229 by d.yang