And sometimes when the stars
shine as bright as your eyes, and the moon
pulls me in as deeply as the waves, I
wonder what may have become of us
had I not reached out to you
that January.
My keyboard may not have been glued
to my thumbs and my heart may have kept
its normal rhythm, but my smile would
not have been as wide. My eyes would not
sparkle at the sound of your name, for my heart
would not have tied its strings around it, and
you would not have become the source of
my laughter. My hands would not
crave the touch of yours and my lips would
not miss their other half. My favourite songs
would not make my eyes glimmer like they do
now, your cologne would be just another scent
and my heart would not be shattered.
I love you.
I love you for loving me. For showing
me what it was like to be consumed with
overwhelming joy. For making me the
brightest star in your solar system, when
I was only a diamond in the rough. For always
being there when I needed you. For accepting
me as the emotional wreck I was. For
letting me be entirely myself, and for letting
me love you with my entire being.
I hate you.
I hate you for sadness I felt. For being so
loveable that I couldn't have stopped myself
even if I'd tried. For making me love you
so much that I forgot what it was like to
ever live without you. For loving me so much
that when you left it felt like someone turned
off every light in the universe and cut off my
oxygen supply. For making it impossible for
any other boy to compare to you.
I like to think that we may have still ended up
together had I not made the first move. That
you would have seen me walking through the
crowd and reached out to me instead. That our
love story was meant to be.
That if we had been more careful
we would still be together
and you might still love me.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
"But why do you still love him?"
The question runs through my mind
trampling all my other thoughts
its syllables intertwining in the lyrics of songs
I can no longer listen to
without forming black trails
all over my cheeks.
The truth is I do not have an answer.
I believe it will be one of the things in my life
which I will never have an answer to,
along with
"How did we end up like this?"
and
"What the hell did I do to deserve it?"
The only thing I do know
is that I loved you.
I loved you so deeply that your name
is now engraved on my heart
forever imprinted as its first owner.
I loved you so madly that you became
my every thought
and I think a hell of a lot.
I loved you with every ounce of my soul
my entire being and more
if that's even possible.
And when people ask me how I knew it was love
I laugh and roll my eyes,
because how could I not have known?
If you had been the rain
I would have run out into a storm
barefoot and without a raincoat
so that I would have been able to be with you
without any barriers.
If you had been the sun
I would have gone to the beach
and sunbathed for weeks on end
just to absorb as much of you as possible.
If you had been the wind
I would have let you blow through my hair
tangling it in every direction
so that I would have some form of memory of you.
I also know that our love was beautiful
and it was kind
and I needed it as much as the air that I breathe.
It was not perfect
and it was one hell of a ride
but what's life without a bit of a rollercoaster?
I will never know for sure if you ever loved me
as strongly, and as wildly as I love(d) you
but I do know that you loved me
and that is enough.
Thank you for making me feel precious
like I was worth something
like I was worth loving.
You will forever have a place in my heart
May 20, 2018
May 20, 2018 at 11:46 AM UTC
I find home in the moon.
Her graceful light guides me in the dark
telling the waves to lull me to sleep
resplendent in all that she is.
I find shelter in the ocean.
So vast she makes my worries float away
deep enough for me to drown all my thoughts
dazzling in her immensity.
My home is in the stars I am lucky to see on cloudless nights
in the beautiful flowers which grow on never-ending fields
in the sun which bids us farewell in the most breathtaking manner.
I am alive in the smiles of all the people I have met
vibrant in all the cities I have travelled to
present in every conversation I have had.
I struggle to find one place to call home
for I am unsure of where I belong.
But what I do know
is that I have taken pieces of everything that I love
and replaced them with pieces of my heart
so that even when I am gone
the universe remembers my soul as a kind one and says
"She was a ray of sunshine. I'm going to miss her."
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 11:38 AM UTC
She is a firecracker in a silent room.
Her toothy smile
which spreads from the centre of her lips
to the tips of her ears
is contagious.
Her eyes are the blue-green colour of the ocean on a warm summer day
peaceful at the surface
and the magic held within them is reserved only to those who take a closer look.
Her hair is golden
like her soul
and her locks tangle to no end.
The springs bounce with every step she takes
the ringlets so perfect so you would think them unnatural.
But they definitely are;
she does not have the patience to sit still
for more than an instant
her body carrying her wherever fate decides—
sitting down to curl her hair would never cross her wild mind.
Her laugh comes from somewhere deep inside her slender body
somewhere far behind her rib cage
where the vibrant rhythm of her body originates.
Her heart cannot be contained
too big to fit inside even the biggest of bodies.
There is not a mean bone to be found in her
for she is filled to the brim with love and joy.
Her legs must be the 8th wonder of the world
so skinny they could snap at the lightest breeze
and yet they carry her across tracks so fast
you would think she was pacing herself with light
not the other children scurrying along behind her.
I, too, sometimes feel like I am scurrying behind her
for her imagination races at speeds mine never could.
She is the most vibrant piece of clothing in the closet
the loudest song on the radio
the spiciest food at the dinner table.
I would like to thank the old, tea-loving
Asian woman who has come to reside in my sister’s twelve year old body
for making her the most interesting book on my shelf
the most watched movie in my collection
and the quirkiest soon-to-be teenager I know.
The world is not ready for the greatness she holds
but everyone deserves a Lily in their life.
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
When I was 7, I knew exactly what Love looked like.
I knew Love had blond hair, blue eyes
cute freckles and a crooked smile.
Love was the fastest boy at recess.
He would push me on the swing set so that my feet flew
and touched the cotton wool clouds.
He shared his snacks with me because
well, 7 year olds are gentlemen like that and
I knew that we were meant to be.
Until we weren’t.
Because 7 year olds grow
and change
and from one day to the next
they are no longer the same.
Love now had brown hair, and brown eyes
so dark and rich I melted into them
like chocolate between fingertips on a warm summer day.
We read books together
like the true intellectual 7 year olds we were
and bonded over
stories about cats in hats?
It wasn’t the world’s most groundbreaking love story
but it was our love story
and that was good enough for our little hearts.
But that love faded away too.
I, in turn, grew and changed
and moved away.
I juggled languages with sports
and friendships and hell
the struggles of being a teenage girl
!
that I didn’t even stop to think about
where Love had gone.
I figured I would see him in the hallway
at some point
maybe
but he was definitely around somewhere!
We were probably just taking different classes
and had slightly different interests…
But I knew I’d run into him eventually!
It took me 4 years to come across Love again.
I hardly recognised him at first—
he had the same dark eyes, but this time his
skin was the colour of the coffee my dad drinks every morning.
His jawline was sharper than any knife in my kitchen
and his cheekbones were higher up on his face.
His dark eyebrows grew wildly across his forehead
but his grin was unmistakable.
Love had grown at least a foot since the last time I’d seen him.
He was an athlete, except instead of running at recess
he now ran sprints for the athletics team.
Love’s love for books hadn’t changed either
but he’d replaced the stories of hungry caterpillars
for novels, and plays, and poetry.
It was when Love made the same joke
and I heard him laugh the same laugh
that I realised Love didn’t come in a fixed package.
Love was not something you ordered online
that came delivered with a pretty ribbon at your doorstep
a dress you could try on and send back if the fit wasn’t right.
Love doesn’t have
a religion
a nationality
a sexuality.
Love is someone
who listens when you tell them about your day
even on the worst of days
not necessarily to give you advice
or because what you have to say is particularly exciting
but just because they want to know.
Love is someone
who you can talk to at any time of the day
the person at the other end of the phone at 3AM
when you need to cry because everything is wrong
but also the person who will take you to the park at on a Sunday afternoon
when the sun is shining, and the birds are chirping
and your worries
are wrapped in a soap bubble
and gone with a gust of wind.
Love always thinks you look beautiful.
Love likes your hair both up and down
thinks you look great in that bikini
that your makeup looks good today
but that you could also do without it.
Love thinks you’re prettiest when you’re smiling
but that’s not to say you’re not pretty when you cry.
Love is not always the person you would expect.
But do not judge Love for the body it comes in.
Judge Love for their taste in socks
and Disney movies
and candy bars
and sports teams.
For their opinions on politics
and peanut butter
the importance of family
and the new Snapchat update.
These little quirks which define Love
are what will decide whether you are meant to be.
NOT the body you encounter them in.
Apr 21, 2018
Apr 21, 2018 at 2:46 AM UTC
My brown eyes belong
to my mother
as well as my hair
and my lips
and my smile.
My long legs belong
to my father
as well as my toes
and my eyebrows
and my laugh.
And yet my tongue
belongs to both my parents
and to me
and to no one at all.
It floats along the Seine
until it reaches the ocean
and lands in a puddle of maple syrup.
It cheers at baseball games
but then follows the home run
out into a cricket game.
It trembles along streets lined
with red lanterns, only to
climb the towers of the Sagrada Familia.
My tongue twists and turns
travels far and wide
and yet, it does not have a home
for my accent is wrong
and my English is broken.
I have tried for so many years
to find a place for my tongue to call home
without feeling half-English
or half-worthy, or torn.
For how can something which has never been built
be broken?
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 12:39 PM UTC
Late in January of last year, a butterfly came and sat on your windowsill.
She was resplendent, intricate and exquisite.
Her words were delicate and sweet like honey;
they floated off her tongue and held the contingency of fortune.
She told you that spring was coming sooner than expected, and you did not believe her
for the melancholic grey clouds held no promises;
but you hoped she was right, because
spring was the season of efflorescence and flourish, and winter was anything but.
Surely enough, delicate sunshine brushed your face in February,
or maybe it was March, but time was trivial seeing as
and your heart was as light as her wings,
and the marigolds had begun to bloom.
When summer settled in, you tried to keep the butterfly in your hand
in hopes of eternal sunshine,
but everyone knows that butterflies cannot be kept for long
and that fall is inevitable.
The marigolds began to reek and wither
as the leaves began to change colour.
Your butterfly wanted to be set free
but you tried to keep her.
So she flew away.
As much as it broke her, she could not be held back.
With her she took the last traces of sunshine,
and what was left of your heart.
You spent the rest of winter looking for something to bring you incandescence
and she searched for someone who’s spirit resembled yours;
but serendipity was not written in the stars
and you were both left heavyhearted.
It is now the 22nd of January;
you have not yet found a butterfly,
but a caterpillar who holds the promise of flourishing into one,
and she has found someone who’s heart is made of gold to share her stories with.
Your love for each other was not meant to be-
but it was beautiful while it lasted
just like the marigolds
that grew last spring.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 7:46 AM UTC
So many Junes and Julys
I spent watching the paint dry
on our brand new cream walls
instead of going to play football
with the other kids my age in the street.
I sat and wondered why
my shaking knees did not smile, why
my bony fingers could not disguise
their quirkiness under pretty blue eyes
like all the other girls did.
And yet many paint coats later
I now realise that these walls have not changed
anything but their colour
in the many years my parents have lived here.
My parents, who spent so many years teaching me
to be loyal and kind,
not only to others
but to myself.
I like to think that if the walls could talk, they would say:
It does not matter what colour you decide to
dye your hair (or your walls),
because those who really love you
could not care less.
We have seen you grow into the person you are today;
stubborn, passionate and genuine,
but we know that you may still need to borrow
other people’s glasses to see it.
The road to self love is difficult
but know that you must love yourself
before loving anybody else.
You may not believe it yet
because you see others as the galaxies which
you could never be, but we promise that
you are the stars, and anyone who refuses
to look through a telescope to see that
does not deserve to see you shine.
There are lakes and rivers waiting for you
with open arms, and sunrises
which will put on their best colours
just for your eyes to see.
Your body is made of stardust,
you are stronger than the trees you have grown to love,
and though you may not be perfect
you are enough.
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 7:37 AM UTC
Our fate was written in the
folds of your mother and grandmother's saris, beautifully
intertwined with the gold patterns on
the long sheets of fabric.
It was written in the
hem of my father's hockey jersey, patriotic
to our love just as my father
is to his team and city.
And yet, not even the promises we made to
each other could hide the fact that a bindi does
not belong on my forehead, and that
you belong in a cricket field, not an arena.
Feb 5, 2018
Feb 5, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC