In my years of reading, I'm cognizant of certain written works that can hit readers straight through the chest only when they lived a specific milieu, reached a milestone, or stepped into a minefield of life's BS. For me, "Linya" is that poem.
Oftentimes, I find the city's holiday bustle a distraction from meaningful Christmas moments.
In Badian, people prefer booming remixes over big speakers, karaoke singing, and drinking. I stayed behind the door, comforting the black fluffball named Waro.
As a poet, the thought of losing a community that shaped my idea of 'city as a home' puts me in a somber mood.
the girl who thinks an awful lot 