I keep watering a dead grave, hoping something will grow.
Nothing ever does.
And still, I keep trying.
I keep trying, day and night.
Weeks on end.

Because deep down,
I know that if I stop,
Someone else will water the grave.
And something will grow.

Maybe flowers will bloom.
Maybe weeds will sprout.
It could be something wild, untamed.
Something exciting.
Something that grows without needing to be loved.

But it won’t be from me.
It wasn’t my love that helped the grave grow.
It wasn’t mine.
And that kills me.

I wonder to myself.
Why won’t the grave give me something exciting?
Why won’t it grow beautiful plants for me?

Why do all my efforts of trying to make something memorable always go unnoticed?

Maybe I’m not watering a grave anymore.
Maybe I’m burying myself.
And maybe I won’t ever get out.

I know it’s time to let go.
But I can’t.

So instead,
I wait everyday.
Hoping.
Believing something will grow.

Built for the Fire (more than ever)

I could stay numb.
I know how.
I’ve done it—
sat in the quiet aftermath,
let the weight of loss press me still.

It’s safe there,
in the ache that asks nothing.
No risk,
no rejection,
no reminders of what we once had.

But I wasn’t built for numb.

I was built for heat,
for tongue and lip against skin,
for tangled sheets and laughter
that opens something holy inside.
For conversation that strips the armor
and hands that say
you’re not alone here.

So no—
I won’t shrink.
I won’t hide behind the ruin.

I want love again.
Not the edited kind—
not filtered, polite, or halfway.
I want the messy, honest kind,
the kind that sees me, stays, and builds.

I want closeness that burns with truth,
touch that doesn’t just touch skin,
but says something deeper,
says you matter. You’re real. I’m here.

I want to risk it all again—
not because I forget the pain,
but because I remember the feeling.
What it’s like to be alive in someone’s arms.
What it’s like to look across the room
and know: this moment, right now, is everything.

Yes, I’ve been hurt.
Yes, the loss nearly wrecked me.
But I refuse to stay frozen.

It’s human to want love.
To crave the sacred electricity
of closeness, of presence,
of hands and lips and hearts saying
let’s try again.

So if I love again—
and I will—
it will be fully,
boldly,
fiercely.

Because even after all I’ve seen,
I still believe:
there’s nothing braver
than choosing love
when you know exactly
what it can cost—
and you do it anyway.

© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved

For there’s much more to remember.
perhaps the walk that still embers.
The distinct message at the first sight.
and pin bent at the other end of the road.
Waited for the travellers to haunt at night.
when the moon with a smiley face to bright.
A stroll to remember where one walked,
with hands and hands together at ride.
The longest ride with no where to strife .
The pages had a crack of fork.
The sweetest song played once at night .
Today no longer serves the lost pride.
There is an unread scribblings,
at the frame on front hall.
The dried flowers on the wall lay,
there hung by their choice.
The spiders web too written its sign.
The haunted one by the choice.

GEETHA JAYAKUMAR.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

pain’s funny.
laughs a humorless laugh, entering through the doorway
without a knock, without ringing the bell—
a familiar visitor in the hotel of myself.

it has learned my name,
learned where it ought to reside.
easy for it to slip in, even undisguised.

i welcome it, however.
often, i bring it over to a pedestal:
period cramps causing knots in my stomach,
getting waxed after a month,
or even falling over and knocking my head against a cupboard.
familiar. honest. raw. unfiltered.

it sits behind my ribcage, a permanent guest.
some days, in my head.
often, in the form of a heavy numb in my chest.

why is it there—
what form, what holiday brought it this time?
the questions remain unanswered.

sometimes it carries a reason.
other times, it’s just to remind me of old memories—
like applying my favourite perfume.

i could create a list,
but it’s hard to remember
when it’s visiting my central library
of all that i carry.

i can’t remember how it began.
like an old friend,
one night i met it in disguise.

thought i could trust.
i let myself flicker.
it changed my defaults.
and i found some plain, old comfort.

perhaps the wrong kind.
perhaps the wrong thing to do—
chasing after something that hurts
or brings it to visit me the same way it used to.

now, however, it resides,
living right behind my eyes.

sometimes, if i look too hard,
i can almost imagine its presence:
dark.
clouding.
a kind of grey.
ready to hold my hand.

having grown up—
a monster turned old friend,
almost a lover.

i wear it like a second skin.
and on days i can’t even drink,
it slips its hand in my own,
brings me up, pushes me to smile,
whispers, you have to pretend.

and i do.
i do.
and i keep doing so.

support of one kind,
accepting me with my own mind.

some days, it feels like metamorphosis almost—
a change of forms.
on some days, as a memory.
other times, as a memento.
like dowry.

never concluding.
doesn’t even let me stay in delusions.

creates imagery so beautiful,
i’m yet to believe it isn’t just me—
dignified, personified as the midnight hour.

i’m no sun, or the moon.
maybe i could be a star?

the blood drips from my fingers
meets the blood on his palm
i hear the voice that whispers
behold- here i am

perhaps it isn’t right
but i needed God not in hindsight
nor footprints in the sand
I simply needed your hand