You know,
that feeling
when you like a person—
and the person likes you back?

Blissfully
coincidentally.

You know,
this feeling
when a person likes you
and you somehow,
like them back?

Ignorantly
conveniently.

Reciprocally;
reproachable.

🪞

I am a bubblegum
that has lost its taste.
I came in pinkish-turquoise
irresistibly innocent packaging.

I was unwrapped by you.
Chewed up by the muscles in your mouth.
Savoured by your taste buds.

Once.

I was sweet.
Sometimes too sweet,
and sugary-high
for your impulsive liking.

Popsicles.
Apple pops.

Now I am a pale-pink
-coloured bubblegum.
I am a bubblegum
that has lost its taste.

I am the bubblegum
that you stick underneath your desk.
The bubblegum that you
frequently-accidentally,
or coincidentally,
brushed your bare knees upon.

I am the bubblegum
that is hidden,
and hardened.

How I wished
you would just spit me
onto the ground.

Let them walk upon me.

How I wished
you would just spit me
onto the crumpled worn-out wrapper.

Wrap me,
and throw me
into the ******* bin.

Let them recycle me.

But instead,
you keep me glued
underneath your desk,
along with other bubblegum
that have lost their tastes.

Hidden.
Hardened.

Sometimes,
you miss my taste.

Just like how I miss
your gliding tongue
—against me.

Hardened.
Hidden.

Somebody,
scrap me.

🍬

The sky went white as milk.
The thorns grew wider.
Thorns stabbed her body.
She could not go any further.
Release her soul from the little cub's body.
Let her spirits roam the mountain.
Take her. Take her to the bear.
The mouth widened and teeth came down on her.
She leaned willingly into the mouth of breath and pain.
It ate her childhood and made her a bear.
Silence reigned in agony and darkness.
The trails of her footprints ended there.
She remembered the scents of mornings, of blood, and stones.
She had understood the whisper of the winds.
She swam into the river with little fishes.
She danced under the juniper tree.
She talked to the birds above.

She felt mud breathe.
The mountain was hers.

“Mother, eat my childhood”
“Make me a woman”.

"Cik" to "Puan"
"Encik" to "Tuan"

"Cik" to unwedded,
seemingly chaste,
selectively-sweet
glorified
young
women.

Those who appear otherwise
or have passed
a certain age
and possessed
confident demeanour
—to be married..
consequently,
"Puan"?

Men as "Encik"
regardless of their marriage,
status or demeanour—
but only those
with higher,
superior
authority
as, "Tuan"?

"Bahasa jiwa bangsa,
kenapa kau nak terasa?"

These are some
of the patriarchy
in a white-collar vocabulary
that it is not so much
of the vocabulary
but the society

that I shall
probably
never
understand.

Jadi aku unbottle
them all out in this rant.

Never trust the colour
on the packaging
—cos it’ll bleed;
red,
pink,
green,
blue,
black.

o'you'll bleed.

Those colours'll blend
into peroxidic concoction,
so you'll buy capitalistic conditioner
that conditions you
to buy again
and again
to prevent
the bleeding.

Adverts.

Fools.

Bleach!

🫧

Today I had a revelation,
that I have always been scared of validation.
It has become some sort of a sanction,
that I could not bring myself to contemplation
- to put all the jumbled up words into prioritisation.

Yesterday I made an observation,
that I have always cared for validation.
Perhaps cos of these
painful *******,
ironic dissatisfaction,
irrational depreciation,
(ill)ogical dissociation-
juxtaposition,
period.

I have found the courage to admit the jurisdiction,
that I have subliminally craved for validation,
provocation,
affirmation,
impression.

Hence, here is
my conviction,
repetition..

Resignation.

🩸

This digital blot
has been my saviour;
doing me a favour
though shadowed
as someone else’s
labour.

This digital blood
is my waiver.
Marks of trauma;
across my chest
and shoulder.

Digital.
Blot.
Blood.

Analogue?
—demagogue.

🖋️

I used to have a voice—
until I become silenced.

Sick
and—tired.

****(ed)
and—fried.

Tested,
and
tried.

🔩🪛

Pour couple drops
of apple cider vinegar,
onto the juicy
and plumpy
fresh meat.

Apple cider,
balsamic.

Anything
that could
wash away
—the taste.

🥩

You know you need a therapist
—when you start
writing
again.

She—
torn up,
locked up,
showed up,
glowed-up,
glazed-up,
laced-up
the corset
that chokes
like a fauxly demure
pink tourniquet,
puppet

she is,
she was,
she’s been.

⛓️
🎀

He’s not
meant
for
      this,
for
      that,

                      ­         for you.

Instead,
he’s meant
       for
      that,
for
      this,

      but
                  not
                                     for you.

If he
wanted to,
then he ****
would.

****
—would've
done
            it
                 ­ for
                            her.