I find it unnerving,
hearing my voice out loud,
after being branded, growing up
the quiet one, who’s a bit too shy.
small talk is pointless.
the weather is the same—
too sunny, too windy,
everyone’s always
baffled by rain.

we exchange ‘y’alrights’
to seem polite
when no one really cares.
but where i come from,
we ask, dig deep,
we share.

talking is personal.
intimate and sacred.
we ask how your day’s been
with space designated
for your words.
we don’t pretend
sharing doesn’t hurt.

it does.
standing on a stage
fearing becoming
too repetitive, too boring,
running out of stories
to share.
i focus on the words in front,
not on the people who stare.

but it still wrecks me—
and my voice does tremble.
i’m not used to strangers
in moments so tender,
it fills me with dread.
but instead of rotting away,
i’m finding i shed.

i shed the heaviness from inside,
and beneath the words,
i’m fuelled by fire
outweighing the hurt
rubbed reeling.

i’m using it in lanterns
on my journey of healing—
however long it takes.
it is my becoming,
it’s never been a phase.

sometimes it gets dark,
but do witness every line,
observe every spark.
i’ll be here standing—
voice trembling or not.

i found silenced grief in my father's wristwatch
does he reminisce the golden days like i do?
once in a while, i look at my father's face
and notice the wrinkles —
do they come from worry,
or are they the scars of his sins?

sometimes, i walk down memory lane,
re-reading letters that are so dear to me
today, i found “happy birthday”
written on three sticky notes
in different styles —
i couldn't recognise my father's handwriting

the notes didn’t make me happy
they were reminders —
reminders that he missed
my last few birthdays
that he’ll never know my favourite colour
or why
i plan my own funeral so often

the notes still sit
untouched in my tiny box-
like him,
they say "happy birthday"
but never stay long enough to mean it

maybe love was quieter in his hands
and maybe that's what i'll ever get-
not presence,
not warmth,
just time,
and a man i call my father
who never stayed long enough

Dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
If I had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
I would’ve tried to explain who I was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay—
structured, unsure, incomplete.

But you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
I hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

Did you get some of the things
I’ve spent years aching for?
Answers to the never-ending whys—
why I keep repeating patterns,
why I stay when I should leave,
why I doubt what’s already mine?
Did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
And love—
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

I don’t expect letters
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please—
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when I could’ve turned away.

I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Not for answers—
but just to see who survived.
If you’re still standing,
then maybe so am I.

I am a quiet, silent man,
Dwelling deep within myself.
What I long to say aloud,
I pour into a letter’s shell.

She, playful, fleeting like the breeze,
All that I express in words,
She replied with a single image,
And spoke with her eyes unheard.

How beautiful those nights once were,
What magic lived in those old days!
Today again, my heart desires
To send you a letter… always.

But this time, through an artist's hand,
This letter shall reach your grace.
Some words of the heart remain unsaid,
That only colors can embrace.

To the painter I make one humble plea
When you read my letter’s line,
Sketch her soul upon the page,
And let her truest face shine.

Let us see
If my words still hold the weight
Of truth, of ache, of silent grace.
And if she, when the artist paints,
Still wears that same beloved face...
Or was it all just well-performed
a role she played through posed displays?

I know I’m just your little sis
What do I actually know
But lemme try and just tell you this

I know I’m not in your world exactly
Don’t know the difficult place you’re in
But I know the pain sadly

I’m your sister at the end of the day
You and I are the most alike
We got similar struggles in a way

I know how to read people just like you
Hear what they really think about me
I got that same curse too

Disappointed of the journey we create
Why can’t we be the golden child
But failure must be our fate

I see when you want to be left alone
I see when you’re in a dark cloud
The heavy weight on your backbone

I know how it feels to be lost
Inside your head and heart
Wondering what it’s gonna cost

I also got an addictive personality
Anything to relieve the pain
Anything to escape my reality

I really don’t think struggling is bad
You and I are ahead the game
Even though we didn’t ask to be mad

I pushed off opening up for years
Refused to acknowledge my pain
Scared as hell to face my fears

I know it seems everyone is watching
With a cynical and judgmental eye
Waiting for the chance to start preaching

But sometimes as I see the judgment
Reflected in their eyes
I realize maybe I need adjustment

Maybe I am so harsh on myself
The quickest to assume their mad
Assuming the hatred is from himself

Sometimes from deep within me I see
I hate what I’m doing to everyone
Maybe I refuse to except me

We are all just left to wander alone
A strange unwanted path
A journey we apparently chose

Please don’t think you’re a bad guy
You’re stronger then most
You’re my hero I won’t deny

So yeah I know I’m just your little sis
Love,
…

It is queer
The way that eyes blink out from the walls
yet still whilst I water them so
there screams are the loudest calls

It is queer
the way that the water flows up
Even when the bed is dry and the fish flop into the valley beside thee pond
despite being filled with wine, I can catch them in my late evening cup

it is queer
That this poem shall reach you
For where I reside cannot possibly be described
for the dank dark feald is oh so dry, I don't know how anything grew

it is queer
the concept of time
for in this place one may notice things
things that used to be fine

why, one fact that I truly find to be queer
is the state of thyn mind whilest you sleep
everything is turned on its head
and everything has landed in a heap

Why is it said that in thyns dreams
Thee must always be happy and gay
that there will be nothing said of demons
that it shall consist of unicorns and fae

And truly I say, that a common man's opinion on dreams
opinions that weren't even written in your year
can be seen by many and not called queer
that now it is called a song of the heart
and that is something that thee should forever hold dear

(The sun’s pov)
I am the life, the light, the dawn—
burning bright, revolving endlessly.
I paint the skies, a vow to you:
We will meet when light and dark subdue.

I see you glow— how ethereal you are.
You have always deserved my radiance,
Setting the night sky ablaze with your light
A glimmer, quiet yet bright.

The stars, my siblings, ask of you:
‘Why do you and The Moon never meet?’
If only fate were kind.
The heavens would fracture,
Our love is almost cataclysmic.

I love you, but love is not enough.
I beg to stay—
Though our part is demanded.
Burning with light I lend you,
I yearn for a touch,
I can only give in the shadow.
Be it lunar or solar.

(The moon’s pov)
I rise as you fall,
Only glimpse I catch— a golden ring,
You set the sky ablaze, a burning promise,
Painting the horizon in shades of you.
Is it a letter left for me?
A vow that someday, we will meet again?

Yet, I am the echo of light left behind.
I shine for you, hoping you’ll notice me.
Do you ever watch as I light up the sea,
or does your fire outshine me endlessly?

The stars murmur our names.
watching me rotate, watching you revolve.
Questioning our distance,
Yet if we did— if our worlds aligned,
Wouldn’t the cosmos tremble?

I long to meet you— I long for an eclipse.
glowing in the light I borrow.
Yearning for a touch,
I’ll only taste in shadow—
be it lunar, or solar.

Mẹ,

I am hurt by the way things have ended. How do you struggle with your second language, but know exactly what words jab at my dignity? The lack of “I love you”s as I grow up is justified, yet at the times you desire, you’re suddenly fluent in the language of breaking my heart. You articulate clearly and concisely, every syllable stabbing into my spirit as I swallow the lump in my throat. I still bite my tongue with remorse for growing into what you want to be. I choke down any remarks that would make you think less of me (less of you).

You compare me to the man who broke us, but I refuse to see him in the mirror. I have your left dimple, and my brother’s skin that contrasts yours so vividly like the branches that hold your dear orchids next to the porcelain in the glass closet that’s as fragile as your ego. My eyes come from what I have overcome, and the fire in my heart is God. I wish you saw His glory within me, and not the beast that you married.

I wish you weren’t so embarrassed of yourself. I wish you felt familiarity in a country as foreign as mine. For despite all you have done, I want to show you off. I am sorry for how you raised me. Most of all, I forgive you for all the apologies I never received. May you perceive yourself with grace.

Love,
your daughter