ayame

Joined May 2021

0 stories

Bio

23, born and raised in the sf bay area.

dragon enthusiast, cloud-watcher, avid reader, and eager knowledge-absorber.

Stories (10/0)

Daddy's Dearest Daughter
Mom called. She said: Popo died. I heard: This morning they carried your grandma out in a body bag. •• The locked hotel bathroom transformed, turning colder and colder. I sat frozen on the closed toilet seat while hot tears rolled down my face. I stifled a sob with my fist.
By ayame3 years ago in Families
Home Sweet Home
I am dizzy and floating and so is home. The door tilts and shifts. My shoes scrape the rug when I walk in. Bright green pocked walls envelop me and I can’t see my relfection in the devil-warding mirrors.
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
clouds
definition a reminder: the sky. a reminder: the clouds. a reminder: the wind. there is so much movement, hypnotizing movement, in the sky. and yet, an infinite stillness that takes your breath away sometimes. to revel in her glory—the sky, the earth, the wind, the clouds. you ache for this feeling. to be like a cloud. to be ever-changing and feel weird sometimes and stretch yourself thin or puff yourself up or disappear completelyand still always be present. you ache for this feeling.
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
Rules & Regulations
#1 i’m sick of rules the rules i made to hold myself still and silent #2 Docile Daughter DISGUSTING i hate it i hate it
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
Finally Home
On a full moon in the middle of fall, Sora kneeled in front of her dresser and packed the last of her clothes into a duffel bag.
By ayame3 years ago in Fiction
Panic
panic. a beep arises from the machine, like the one my alarm makes—stressful. the blocked passageway doesn't move. a feeling arises in me
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
Unraveled
once untied from the stories that wove me have i become a pile of string a sweater unraveled ## do trees also ask themselves to grow?
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
Anew A New Again
A new week, predawn dew clings to rented walls + warm comforter, sweat [ ] sticky pink pajama dress a light switch off
By ayame3 years ago in Poets
A Totally-Normal-Not-Special-Nor-Strange Family Dinner
It’s a Thursday night. All the lights in the house are off except where the three of us sit, eating dinner. The last remnants of light slide down the curtains to my left, tree branch shadow puppets fading.
By ayame3 years ago in Fiction
Summer 2017
The cicadas screech in tune with the hot sticky air drifting in through the bathroom window. I push my glasses to my forehead and rub my eyes with my fists. I pull open my red drawstring bag—perched on the sink ledge—and shuffle through its contents. My notebook, pens and pencils, phone, earbuds, pink sanitary pads, a brochure for the Hakone Open Air Museum, and the sole of my right tennis shoe—are all passed through to grab my clear plastic hair clips. I should’ve brought hair ties.
By ayame3 years ago in Psyche