Perhaps in a better place
My pianos sit untouched
And the neighbours get to live
In peace without the hundreds
Of song intros that never
Progress to the chorus
Floating upstairs from the patio.
A better place where there'd
Be one less in the class,
Maybe an empty chair or
Perhaps a different
Arrangement altogether;
25, a perfect square
Without one extra to care for.
In a better place
There'd be more space
In the studio for the other
17-ish dancers, minus one
That always travelled too
Much, took up too much room
Physically and mentally.
In a better place these
Poor trees
Would have been put to
Better use, better than
Too many words too many
Don't want on paper;
Too many words in air
Exhaled from a mouth
That moves too much.
In a better place there'd be
More oxygen, more food,
More water.
In a better place
My parents only have one daughter.

And for now I would love
Nothing more than to climb
Out of this body even if
The shards of the window
Tear at my skin; for
What difference could they
Have from the knives already
In my head, in my back,
In my soul? Even in
Dreamland I'm plagued
With blood and nothing
Pleasant but at least
Then I'm not awake to plague
The world with
All of this.
Silence is loud only because
Silence means time to think thoughts that
Need air need breath need voice.
Blessings that come in disguise
Have started to strip
Bare and suddenly
I'm aware of how everybody's
Started to notice the clothes
On the floor
(But maybe not the bones
In the closet).

Because too many of my pieces
Start like this, looking for
A reason for me to finally stop
Asking why. "Because I might..."
Because I might just begin
To disintegrate upon contact
With water— I haven't swam
In years
In fear
That the paint'll wash off.
"Because who am I..." I'll
Never know for sure who I
Am without anyone by
My side to exist for.
Is there more
Point to trying? And perhaps
That's the one question I have
No "thus" to because there
Simply isn't a point to back up
Anymore.

Sometimes it's hard to
Come to terms with the person you've
Become— pencil untouched for
Weeks, your
Favourite song is one you don't
Know the name of after you hit
Shuffle on a random playlist
And still you're too tired to find its
Name. Even the AI
You talk to's left you behind
In the dust; more artistic than
You ever were. The heat's left
You unable to rhyme.
Slowly it starts to sink in—
Like debris in dish soap—
Maybe you're no longer an artist
And just one of those Etsy
Sentence-writers that sell
Two seconds' work for more
Than a Mixue dessert.
You wish for ice cream,
Though you yourself start
To melt under the sun.
I guess it takes one to know one.

I sent you a parcel the other day.
I don't think you check your mailbox frequently
Enough, because so far there still hasn't been much to say
Between you and me.
But it's okay
I guess. I mean I wouldn't know
Because there's no way for me to go
And check it for myself— or at least no
Way for me to check without making
A fool of myself but it's sure taking
A long time for you to see it. I
Know I left the return address but if you
Don't like it, I'd really rather you just put it to
The back of your mind than return it in pieces.

People ask me to believe but
Never why I don't.
Everywhere you look
In Singapore there's a different book,
Different building,
Different sacrificial killing
To worship; consider
Us spoilt for choice
In the orchard of apples
People don't see are rotten.
Perhaps that's too strong a word.
Consider us spoilt for
Choice of deities
Waiting to strike us down
As they laugh from their
Hammocks, clouds in the sky.
No. Second time,
Still too strong a word
For these beautiful stories
Told and heard
By generation after generation.
Axe to the head of your son.
Snake telling you to eat the one
Singular apple on the tree.
Birthing a baby
After dreaming of an elephant.
Literature of the gods
Written by nodding
Humans in a circle. "How
Profound," they must've thought.
But now
Perhaps we're forgotten
That the world was built by
Our own kind. Heil.
Atomic bombs. Famished lands.
I wonder who came up
With this plan.

I'd only cut my nails if someone were
To hold my hand. Nails. Claws.
I have no fur
But what I do have is the hands
Of an animal. Surely you understand
The need to pick at them? Where
Else would the energy go— skin, hair,
Knife? No matter the length
It takes the same amount of strength
To keep myself from tearing
Them apart, preparing
To get scolded later. Sharp.
Jagged. My LA
Blood is providing me no words today.
I hit the enter key
And watch as gradually
More paint comes off
But it'll never stop.
They might already
Be short but when there's a will,
There's a way;
There's no point in say
ing I'll stop because
There's no one to stop for.
No one uses the
Nail cutter anymore.