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疲れた Mar 2014
"return goodness with goodness
and viciousness in kind"
whoever says that
has never lived in our world

"I'm fine, it's okay"
no its not.
but no one knows it -
no one truly notices
the way your eyes glaze
over from hurt as the
grip on your shoulder

no one ever does.
疲れた Feb 2014
at twelve,
i suffered from eight grade syndrome,
of "getting your heart broken is pretty"
it really isn't.
at twelve,
you barely know enough of love
but at the first sign of abandonment
it hurt so much you don't know
what you should do about it

at thirteen, i met you.
you, with a basketball in one hand
and change in the other;
a fence separating us
it was the first we ever touched,
fingers merely brushing
but it was enough
at thirteen, i watched the stars with you
in an island away from the mainland
i wished that we would always be together
even if we will always
"just be friends"
at thirteen, i burnt my own skin
with a stick of eraser as if i was
trying to erase all traces of myself
in this world
but it wasn't enough -
i was left with wretched scars across my left arms that
i could not explain with
"my dog bit me"
you see, my parents have never liked dogs.

at fourteen,
we weren't friends anymore
so i drowned myself not in tears
but with a bottle of panadol that i found in the fridge
my parents found it (panadol) hidden under the pillow
where instead of the tooth fairy
was the grim reaper
to take me away
and instead of dying
i had to face a teary grandmother who loved me a little more than
i could ever recuperate
and parents who were less than understanding
i needed a "i love you"
but all i got was "how could you do this to us"
at fourteen, the guilt was overwhelming
so i tried to forget by pressing a pen against a notebook
so hard i eventually bored a hole in it
and when that didn't work out, there was always the rusted penknife that i hid in a shoes box
along with a tear-stained diary of happier times
at fourteen, i tried to move on from you -
put you away like a yellowing photograph i hid in a diary
as you masked your pain with a cold shoulder
i was elsewhere, holding hands with a boy
i think that's when i found out
i loved you
in every sense of the word
i think
that's when you realised
that you loved me too.

at fifteen,
i cleaned up that ****** excuse of a life
put the blade somewhere i could never find it
broke up with the person i could never fall in love with
after that cross-country, we called each other
and fell asleep
ears pressed unto the phone
it was the happiest i had been in a long time
at fifteen,
i didn't tell you
"i love you"
even though  i wanted to articulate the three syllabus words so badly the past year
it hurt
and although our shoulders barely brushed against each other
across the hallways
and we barely held hands on dates
it was strange
that even if you are in vietnam, melting under the heat
and i am in nepal,
in a hotel room that overlooks mount everest
even if we are miles apart
you are still the only one in my mind

at sixteen,
things were slowly deteriorating:
maybe its the minutes ticking away,
until the hallways are no longer a place where laughter gathers
or maybe its the stress
of the national exams
we are barely adults and
yet we must decide our futures
as if we don't have 50 more years to decide
what we want as adults
at sixteen,
my friends are no longer friends
the hushed whispers across hallways
is only a prelude that
will eventually spell out a chapter of pain
that will lead me to a penknife
that had rusted in time but was just as sharp
or maybe if not sharper.

at seventeen, things are no longer same.
for one. you were no longer there.
its my birthday today but i kind of got sentimental and wrote this.
疲れた Feb 2014
but sometimes i get sick of it all -
i'm just done with trying
to get people to listen
instead of invalidating
my opinions even before
they actually hear me out
疲れた Feb 2014
you are a handsome man
sporting a navy blue uniform
whose goal is to deliver justice
you are a police officer -
young and ignorant
and I am the seventeen year old daughter
of a mother
who had burst into angry tears
as she rant on about how her daughters
had caused her pain
when three police officers arrived
at her doorstep after a fight in which
she has swing a 12 centimetre knife
at our faces

"don't follow the footsteps of your sister"
at thirteen, I lose my best friends
fourteen when I first drew blood
fifteen when I finally woke up from the pain
from the age when I needed someone
to tell me they cared,
where were you?
you were probably in university,
head submerged in a sea of books
and busking in your youth.
so how can you say this with a straight face
when you were unaware of the path i had thread?

and you had the tenacity to tell me
i have not grown up
yes, i am only seventeen
young, and probably ignorant
but you are the same -
but i'm not a police officer
and it is not my duty to uphold justice
because if this is your justice,
then you are doing it all wrong.
疲れた Feb 2014
to the counsellor and the disciplune master
i am suffering from emotional dysregulation
all it takes is one glance -
one glance and I know
that they will never see it
but I still try and i know:
their lives are too squeaky perfect,
too black and white
for me to explain the shades of grey
to them: having feelings, getting hurt
is "emotional dysregulation"
and I don't need a ******* dictionary
to know they are implying
that this whole problem
was because of my "perspective"
and it does not take much for me
to understand they are implying
that maybe they were not wrong
for pushing me aside like I was an old toy
like hushed whispers in the hallways
are not vicious.
"go back to school. try one more time"
they see my silence, my refusal
as running away. no.
I'm not running away -
there's nothing to mend:
the damage is done.
and if you have lived thirty long years and
you cannot understand that
there are more ways than one to close a chapter
then i wonder who is the one guilty
of a black and white thinking?
I am fighting too
just not with swords or with words
even silence has a place of its own
and its place is here.
and I cannot believe that it takes me to burst into
shameful tears for them to think
that my pain is "real"
it shouldn't take me to feel like
I am about to split into half from the pain
in order for you to finally realise i am really not okay
i have been saying that from the start
and it doesn't need to be a physical act of violence
in order for it to hurt
and i can't believe that you are the teachers that were sent
to reason with me
it makes me want to pack up my ****,
leave and never come back
just a little something for the the two teachers i had to speak to a couple of days ago.
疲れた Feb 2014
I can never be stereotypically perfect
just like how you can
be the mother that
I wish you could be for me
How can I expect you to nurse me,
when you cannot even fix yourself
to begin with
you always said that teen pregnancy is
like a child taking care of another child
in this case
our "relationship" is
the blind leading the blind

I don't understand how you can look
me in the eye and tell me
you care because you don't

you are too busy judging me
to actually be my mother
疲れた Feb 2014
I have this tendency to weight words
before making my own judgment.
some would call me silly -
how can vowels and syllables mean so much
when they are suspended,
weightless in the air.

but do you know that it takes only a roll of an eye
for a susceptible teenager
to pull the trigger to their gun
and no one gives a **** –
not until you find them in the toilet
and maybe that’s why when
you told me you were worried
I laughed bitterly

I could not help it –
could not help the resentment
bubbling up
the surface of my consciousness;
I cannot forgive
the way you throw out pretty words,
your voice laced with concern –
you were not there when I was only inches away from a knife
and I cannot forgive myself
for believing in you – inheriting weakness
that came from holding onto silver promises
in the form of words

maybe my skin is just a little too thin
and my pride is a little too strong
that every blunt word,
every roll of the eye
does not only bruise my ego
but crushes the very earth I stand on
leaves me wondering
why I should even try
because each attempt
was scoffed at, mocked by
the people I thought cared –
but each time I tried they showed me
exactly why trusting people is
another one of my long lines of mistakes
travelling down
my wrists;
my thighs
the side of my waist
my arms
but that's another story to tell
one that doesn't belong to this poem
one of many
because i have too much to write
and this is not enough.
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