I know a broken writer when I see one. Their shaky hands but perfect handwriting, the kind of perfect they wish to feel.

Their broken eyes and their chapped lips, trying to cram all of their emotions into one single page.

Trying to find the other hidden figures like them, begging the universe to let them be happy but still be broken enough to care.

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Much like my father this boy that I have intriguingly clung to does not have any appreciation for my existence much less my helpless soul.

I feel like the caring down syndrome child that begs his alcoholic of a father to love him yet the only thing he has spoken is how unmanageable the poor child is.

I am very lost and also heartbroken, I am the dirty tile in the corner of the kitchen that i...

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