Blue blood and stitches

Losing my mother was like skydiving and not having a parachute. I was fucked from the jump. Undeterred by the risk, I managed to survive with a only few intramuscular bruises, scrapes, and self-diagnosed cynicism.


September 28, 2012: A mother’s love is the most irreplaceable love a person can feel. It’s a privilege some fail to appreciate and reciprocate.

Before even entering the world as a human, we are loved. Since we’re already inside her womb and fed through the same digestive tract, we are nurtured and cared for as one. It is a love of pure selflessness. A love given with no expectation of anything in return.

Nowadays, it’s the little things that get to me most — Chanel Chance Eau Tendre, The Carpenters, extra meaty spaghetti, and solid black turtlenecks.

If there was something I learned from my mom, it wasn’t how to perfect winged eyeliner or the hierarchy of designer bags. It was how to love.


Though the wounds have finally healed, the marks she’s left will carry on forever, most relevantly, through my family, and of course, myself.

When the glass is half empty, add ice.

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