We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck
For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance,
think and talk through the side of her neck.
It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early,
For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts
And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!”
We would lean in and listen intently
But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous!
Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses,
She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray!
We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment.
For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak.

But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head;
For she was practically logical,
Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes.
Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground.
And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition.
Those times, there'd be surprise and awe.
Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge.
So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head;
And that is when we would cheer for her.

But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

blue lilies
now;wilted and zapped
petals of hibiscuses;
frosting and drooping
pressed between our pages
stenching and staining
them edges
bleeding


the flesh stenches
the putrid blooms
carve squealing wounds
the blood engulfs the heart
that deliquesces


the crevices are graved
then the heart deliquesces
and falls into two
down/a rotting corpse
it oozes into


the disgust of existence
creeping through shredded layers
of shroud
covering the withering bones,
mass
and
emotions


searing
it melts eventually-the shroud
until it reaches the bones
crashes them there
spilling the liquids/
all that is left bare
is already atrophying


and i guess that's the difference between dying and rotting
dying at least leaves you
the voids to hold onto
to be nostalgic for what was held
dying-paints,hues from the ashes that blew


but rotting
eats away all that existed
and snaps leaving
detritus,stinking
odor that i need  


the craft of us
all worn out
the fragments dis plumed through holocausts
the rebellion in ruination  
and the twitched cold feet
each breath i've took,now smothering
you,me,and everything



the reflections,contradictions
intoxicating,caging charcoal abstracts
punctured and ruptured
all constituents consuming and decaying now
every treble
so heavy


freezing not frozen
perishing not lighter


maybe these moments
-they never stop
cause right there in the midst
everything rots.
-/and we let it

~d

hidden ways through bushes
in a july evening —
i'm walking to the park.
haven't learnt to write
poems yet,
or to think of thoughts.
but i draw girls
wearing fancy clothes
in my sister's old notebooks.
i have learnt hidden ways
to exist everyday —
go to my room when dad
is watching the television
in the living room,
don't laugh at dinner,
pretend to fall asleep,
pretend to not hear.
i haven't learnt yet
what it means
to feel relieved
to leave the house and
go to the park.
a mix of straight and wavy,
my hair,
is a roasted-coffee brown
in the sunshine.
the swings are taken
and i've made a couple friends
over shared boredom.
we decide to make
bouquets for home.
big, round leaves
rolled into cones,
and off we go
looking for the prettiest flowers.
orange, white and pink hibiscuses
and a big adventure,
stealing roses from someone's garden.
i've fallen down from running,
and the other girl
tripped over my leg.
we are laughing — breathless;
our cheeks pink and dusty.
the sun has swirled into a nothing,
and the girls say
they have to go.
a bouquet of flowers in hand,
i walk back home
from hidden ways
through bushes.
leaving the shoes outside,
i rush to the kitchen
to fill a glass with water —
the flowers will live another day
in a makeshift vase.
in the living room
dad switches on the television.

Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather in monsoon and you —
I found you
In an apartment with a sunset wall and cane chairs.
Like an oyster closed shut against the waves of salty seawater; closed against the sun reflecting golden-green.
You are more than body, clothes, cigarettes, water; the scatter of thoughts and fog within you.
There you are,
So far afloat in a sea — golden and green, and I found you!
Do you ever wonder if the world is all imagination? Stardust for skin; the road and our houses a sandcastle creation?
Oh, what are the chances of birthday phonecall-kisses from my grandfather before he died; unread messages and wet eyelashes on a lonely night?
Scratched and bruised and cracked by an ocean, darling you and I — what are the chances?
What are the odds you'd survive your storm and go on,
Past seaweed and sharks?
That counting days, "one, two, ...thirty-seven thousand"
I'd have found fallen hibiscuses at bus stops, a card in my bicycle-basket and on a sublime day midst salty seawater, golden and green... I'd find you?
Yellow wildflower, purple seashell; a peacock feather and you —
I found you.

Missing out on that wonderful feeling
The warmth ***** feeling
Just like honey drizzling in my mouth
Hot chocolate on a snowy night
The fireplace blazing
Incense blowing the room strong
Missing home
The laughter with friends
Comfort with hardship
Hibiscuses in our hair
Beach’s blowing our hair strong
Adventures with love and fun
Talks that never ended
Arguments to laugh at.
Getting lost in the new world and figuring it out.
The world crushing her and having her dream and love being taken away.
Finding hope and strength again to a new beginning of help.