#queseresera

[queseresere]

It’s the middle of the night. The car is silent, my father driving, me the passenger. A deer steps into the road. At the edge, waiting to see who will move first. We saw it coming, so the break isn’t harsh, we roll close and still it stands, some collector of tolls we do not know how to pay. When we make eye contact, from either side of the high beams, I ask it “how many times have you come so close to death, and made it out alive?”. It looks through my eyes, judging my soul the way only prey can stare their predators in the eye, and asks “how many times have you killed yourself only to find you’re still here? How many more times are you going to live?”. It turns and runs back into the woods, ready to live forever. Dad starts to drive again, I sit in the passenger seat, wondering how many times I’ve already died.

[queseresere]

And now I pay for my indulgence. My gluttony too great, my sin too voraciously indulged, and I am left to rot in the aftermath.

[queseresere]

I do not share my greatest work, and that is my biggest failure, because it pains me greatly that when I speak my poetry, when I finally share those words, all I might get in return is silence. That my voice might echo into the nothingness of everything—and it will be as if I made no sound at all; simply a tree falling in an empty forest. It terrifies me to think that my sound would go unheard, so I make no sound at all. And that is the greatest curse to bear.

[queseresere]

Hell is merely a test we create from our own desires to prove to ourselves that we are worthy of their pleasures.

[queseresere]

1/4 of the way through the century…

[queseresere]

It’s funny, how space and emotion seem to work. You strip down your childhood bedroom to the bone, empty it of everything, and expect the space to open up. But suddenly you are sitting in the shell of your childhood, staring at blank walls and empty space, and it feels so, so small. You look at yourself in the mirror—sitting cross-legged in the center of the floor—and you look so old. Like, when you packed away your room, you packed away the child too. And then your mother calls you to come help her move something, and the spell breaks. It’s just an empty room again, and one of these days will be the last time you ever walk into it.

It’ll be back to college soon.

[queseresere]

The holiday vibe truly is eating an entire pack—and I mean 30+ count pack—of coffee oreos in bed, all by yourself, at 1 am.

[queseresere]

Sometimes you just gotta sleep with a pillow between your legs. Can’t risk brushing thighs with the enemy