i remember nap time long ago,

a daily rest i’d always **forgo**.

i’d kick, i’d hide, i’d try to stray,

but sleep would always steal my day.

i _hated_ the dreams, so strange, unkind,

the way they’d slip and leave my mind.

but worse than that, what made me

weep, was when i fell into a dreamless sleep.

the endless void, so vast, so deep,

it swallowed me whole whilst i slept.

no dreams, no thought...

my father is **dictatorial** in his tenderness.

even the plainest tasks — ones that i am _fully_ capable of doing myself — he insists on doing for me. washing my clothes, peeling my fruits, tying my shoes, braiding my hair; the list carries on forevermore. in his arms, i am made out to be small and delicate, a baby cradled in something that can only mimic the safety of a crib. his touch does not...

if victory had a literal taste, it’d taste a lot like **gwendolyn lieve** — sickeningly sweet to the tongue.

boldly claiming that victory tastes like something that’s alive and breathing is absurd, _i know_. but just picture this; you’re friends with a beautiful girl. not just beautiful in the way people are when the sunlight captures them just right, but beautiful in the way like she was sculpte...