predestined to make the same mistakes
for every year

to love the same type of man
an athletic build
energy that lights the room
and a shield around their heart

but for a moment
out of the view of everyone
i watch their eyes soften
through the corner of mine

and i try to imagine
that i am the reason for this.

Sometimes the truth
is like holding
a smoldering flame
in your cupped hands

where if you do not
throw the flame
then it will burn
you alive.

In my short few years,
I have learned that chemistry
is to hear someone speak
and feel their sentence structure
so fully and richly
that you feel like you
are the one who is speaking

It is blinking once,
twice,
rapidly
because you feel as if
you have met them before
and there is an energy field
that is both invisible
and impenetrable

your eyes
communicate silent
conversations
and you can't
take your eyes off them

at the end of the day,
I always come back to poetry
as my medium of expression

short enough
to write and capture
rather quickly

flexible enough
to encompass everything
in exact structures

20 marked
a year of transformation
and redemption.

21 is marking
a year of compassion
and healing

Resilience is
easy smiles and
listening with your heart
to the concern of others

while you feel
the rupture of pain
pollute your veins.

Because you know
that all sadness will
end in ease

So you place trust
in something greater
than yourself

What might have been lost?
if I never see you again

I call your eyes
one of the dreamers
and your eyes dart
across the room

always above my head
like you're watching
shooting stars collide

I learned you are
a body of water
elusive and mystical
flowing between the gaps
of my fingers

always slipping
through my fingers

I know that
your life will rotate
perfectly
without me

But I wish
I could be the compass
always guiding
you home

have you ever
stopped to notice
how much strength
your mother carries
in her womb
and in her eyes

or how girls can give
their hearts whole
without blinking

or how the women
in your life
have been torn apart
by the men they wake
up next to

I have seen bloodshed
and it is not on her skin-
it is when you turned her
inside out
and asked her why
she is still here

as if the sickness
as if the disease
as if the stone
in your body
can be erased
with her unconditional love

I tried to shield
my heart
to keep it whole

but all it did
was turn to stone.

I learned
that our heart breaking
in half
is not the worst
thing that can happen

What is loneliness, I wonder
Is it feeling like you are trapped in an impenetrable bubble
surrounded by the people you love the most
Is it a constant disconnection, frustration, incoherency from yourself, from the centre of your spirit to the tip of your nose
Oh tell me, tell me, tell me
how I can shed it like pieces of dead skin

i’m a quarter lifespan
half human
and too delicate to be
broken.

can you find
the paradox in that
statement?

and in the times
you measured my
force against oceans

I carved soft footprints
in the sand

and watched the
lavenders
grow in them.

as i rushed to build a new community of my own, filled with sticks, stones and my own bones, i forgot to mourn what i had left behind. you tell me nothing lasts forever; yet, i will find a way to salvage what i had poured my heart and soul into building, because i refuse to --i cannot-- believe that it is over, that i am no longer a community but my own person, that i am now inherently and deeply alone.

i couldn't wait for my community to fall apart, so i could rebuild a new one. i convinced myself there were too many cracks in the foundation, that it was imperfect, that i truly didn't belong... but love is love, and even black sheep like me can find it in the oddest places. People are not jigsaw puzzles, i realise now, and neither is love; we never fit, there are always roughed edges, sawdust-- We manage to love anyway.

How I dream for your fingers, long like violin strings, to curl around mine. Lead me away from my nightmare. My mind is an incessant nest of wasps and you are my pesticide.
But somewhere in our blissful silence, you will realise I never surrender fully. And you should know this about me; you cannot completely save me from myself. So leave that saviour complex at the door, because I am born to break.
-
Because I hold onto the fear of abandonment like that second bottle of liquor, when first hasn't numbed the layer of failure clinging to my skin. The same way my weeping mother clutched onto my father's midnight silhouette for the final time, before he tore into the starlit street. And the full moon illuminated the entire sky, because 'the world hasn't stopped rotating--
I drew my curtains, built my walls, and locked my doors.
Mine had.
-
Just in case your fingers never reach for mine, and I am left behind with a collapsing mind--
I do not let myself hope.
You remind me I'm too old to dream, and never too young to disappoint. I have fallen so many times, but I measure every centimeter, and you are a snowy mountain, higher than any I've seen, that is on the verge of crumbling--
-
Prove me wrong.

in between laughter,
easy smiles and pokes,
I found myself losing--
my mind, my heart,
and
something that was
never mine.

over,
over, and over,
over, over, over
again

I find my
heart broken
over again.

Interesting,
how I can only
bleed on typewriters
when my heart
has ripped into shreds,
as if pieces of tissue
are spurting into
strings of nonsensical,
literary madness.

caramel skin
like the sweet scent
of toffee & warm sugar
during a summer festival.

you called me exotic,
with black eyelashes
******* my even darker
raven eyes.

no other woman
could ever compare
with my soft voice,
strong principles,
and thoughtful nature.

you called me exotic.
but I wonder if you know,
I am a stranger within my skin,
within my community.

I am exotic
in an unsettling way--
halves and quarters,
of thoughts and ideas,
and never whole enough
for anyone.

my parents
are whole people
with a fragmented daughter;
to them,
I am a stranger--
I am exotic.

I am both
sickened and liberated
by my difference.

but mostly,
terrified.

I
learnt a lot
when I turned
17.

that
little girl
of 16
was gone.

soon
I will be
a woman
of 18.

but for now,
I will remain
balanced
between a
girl and a woman,
a child and an adult,
my past and my future.

I remember
my age through
memories,
years,
sensations
and blessings.

Sometimes,
I forget
I am no longer
17.

but
the realisation
that I am aging
and my youth is
slowly yet surely
fading...

I am not sure
how to respond
to this--
despair or relief?
fear or hope?

dream or reality?

i. no absolute rest
"yes, time
never did stop
for anyone."

but I add...

ii. no absolute motion*
"even time itself
is an
illusion."

because
yours and mine
...dissent.

iii. backwards
maybe yesterday,
we could still
work things out.

--softer,
than lightly (3.0 x 10^8 m/s)

iv. implausibility
our foreheads wear
the cracks of our heart.

you lost your zeal,
I lost my saviour,
we lost each other,

but left
with osmium-clad
backpacks,
and collapsed
patellas.

E = mc^2.

v. our end

fact:
tomorrow
is inevitable.

fact:
screeching alarms
and lopsided bed-hair,
and chugging caramel lattes,
with precisely two tablespoons
of raw sugar--

fact:
forget among the clamour,
the shadow of your figure--

fact:*
you are an
unearthed blackhole,
under the facade
of a supernova.

(your mass = 2.5(+) x greater than the sun)

It's a ripple effect
as a pebble leaps
into quivers of navy;
submerge into the
ethereal unknowns--
an void,
but not empty,
as it sinks.

I did something
I should have done
a long
long
time ago.

no explanations
no protests
no complaints

Most of my creativity emerges
from crestfallen summer nights,
where I tear the seams of the scars

that have reopened
after a thoughtless word
after a tasteless comment
after an inconsiderate finger,

jabbing into the insecurities
I imagined myself to bury,
but in reality,
I have not.

Humid,
crestfallen summer nights
encapsulate me,
until the pain numbs
me.

today, I begin--
writing poems
not for you
but for me.

I am not creative; but I am emotional and human.

Maybe it's time
to realise that
I do not have
to search for love
elsewhere;
not when it's etched
into my being--
my identity.

Maybe it's time
to not salvage
that love for anyone,
but embracing it
for me.

Is there a barrier
between myself and
the world?

Why do you
conceal your heart
from me?

Loneliness is
watching animation,
laugher, voices, chatter,
and feeling suspended
in time.

Maybe that's why
loneliness is easier to bear
when you're alone,
than around others.

My tongue is scoured
with acid from venomous words
I spit at you.

But it appears,
my aim is poor,
and the majority of
the venom
sinks back into my flesh.

They weave
into my bloodstreams
in the form of guilt,
guilt,
guilt,
until you become
the only thing
clouding my mind.

I am sick
of feeling responsible
for everything
I didn't do--
ignoring the things
I did.

I am imperfect
but so is love.

...For I am more than your inability to love me.

I wore my heart
on my sleeve last year
with a touch of agony
and the depth of despair
in hopes that you would
somehow love me.

But desperation,
I hear,
has a strong scent;
and when mixed
with fear--
and you could sense it
clinging onto my every
spluttered word,
every painted red lips
I hope you'd gaze upon;
the shadow of my eyelashes
imprinted in my cheeks
and the sweet delirium
of your voice;
a echo in the morning,
a whisper at night.

Today I remember
a year ago
how dearly I loved you
and loathed myself.

They wrap their arms
tightly around the other's
veined neck
clawing maniacally with
exposed teeth
and wild eyes.

a certificate;
their names as one,
ripped to shreds
but apparently
still valid.

and somehow,
when it's my turn,
I fantasise my arms
would lay limp
and his will, too.

But maybe
it's a glimmer of hope
of a candle in
interminable night--
wishful thinking.

Silly girl--
there is no romance
without menace.

Let me tell you about public buses
with their rolling wheels and upright seats
where the driver entraps in his own world
and as the passengers, we in ours;

but there's a strange occurrence
when strangers share the same seat--
suddenly, we are sensitive
to their slightest movement
the deepness of their breath
our legs touching slightly, sometimes
ramming together throughout
this epic journey.

then, it's our stop;
we are at the window seat, our eyes darting
outwards, with a speeded heart,
our eyes focus on our
impending bus stop.

but before our words form
the sounds, articulate the words,
this stranger has already shifted
with a smile.

"Thank you," you say, stunned,
wondering how they knew
your feelings.

Abundant galaxies,
in a world of close proximity;
remember our eyes,
shining brighter
than the stars above.

*how rare
and beautiful
it truly is
that we exist

what if my cage
is out of sight;
rather
inside my mind?

these shackles
cling to my wrists
can you see them?

you envy my freedom--
one you perceive me
possessing;

one I never
truly
ever had.

Love
Warm and secure
Is the way you listen,
With an encouraging smile,
As I tell a tale
With glittering eyes;
Hand lightly resting on yours
Fingertips brushing
Along the rim of warm tea,
With buckets of rain
Cascading in the grey mist
In the outside

Whenever I return to the wilted flowers of our friendship,
My lip curls in distaste at your abundant flaws, sharp tongue and emotionally unstable mentality--
Wondering why our eyes ever met; why our mouths and ears alternated, fully losing ourselves in the other

But I remember
How little I felt before I met you.
You were imperfect, and somehow, it triggered emotions I forgot existed, brought light during my darkest days, especially on those I'd rather wake with hands around my throat--
Or more in a more tactful manner, not wake at all

So thank you
For making every day of despair easier to bear
But I am a baby bird learning to fly
With my back turned, head bowed,
I bid you goodbye

Maybe one day
I'll tell you magical stories (the reality of my experiences)
Or maybe I won't

But without you, my world will keep turning
And so will yours

Apparently,
my eyes blaze
with intensity,
emotions, and feelings
I can never suppress;

a labyrinthine
of your deepest emotions
intertwined in a single spark
reflected in my eye

Do you miss me?

An absent voice, a faded smile,
two red-rimmed eyes
that avoid your own;

A heart that once opened,
a beautiful, elegant vulnerability,
now solidified into stone.

Or maybe
you haven't noticed
anything wrong.

Truthfully,
I relapse with a smile
and contemplate suicide
with a giggle;
because our society dictates
happiness, extroversion, ambition
should be carried even to
a grave dictated by
ourselves.

they roll off my tongue--
delirium, phantom, epigrams--
a complex combination of letters
with aesthetic effect to complete
the wondrous effect.

but in the end
**** everything
a foreign word
to my sensitive fingers
and ajar mouth

because while I've engrossed myself
in literary beauty, tracing the structure of words
I completely forgot the true purpose:
to convey meaning,
to explore expression,
to change.

So ****
**** everything
let that profanity
sit on my fingertips;
a commonplace weapon
against the word
dealing me a cruel hand.

remember
forget-me-nots swaying
in the gentle breeze that hums
while the sun sends
another series of bright rays
into our eyes
for yet another day.

It hurts less
when I pretend your name
is a foreign, unexplored word,
the creases in the vowels
like sunken ships
I've never seen,
thought of
dreamt of
before.

today I breathe--
without you
but instead of pain
there lingers serenity
calming butterflies
at my core;
palms faced upwards,
I heal.

I replay
the uproarious sound of your kidneys
at 4 AM; you tucked in a comfortable quilted bed,
and the curve of your glistening elbow
resembling the crescent moon
that my eyes averted from
because they fixated on you
instead.

Listening to a song you heard a million times before,
in a past not distant from your present,
but finding a spiritual connection with the lyrics,
the instruments, the singer's voice--
you find newfound meaning.

Then you realise, it is not the song,
which has changed,
but you.