poem
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You once asked why I followed you, kept with you at all. I said I knew it was right. This is how I knew then: weights left my face, my fingers fragile, hushing breaths. I feel you even when you’re not here. Father always told me that there’s a special place in Hell, just for
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End of the queue and start of the process. Threading eye of needle, delicate contortion of self, steel embraces shoulder. Forced myself through it: square block into circle; all to find a home and throw myself into it. The wave breaks the shore, the man emulates the wave. Wave breaks shore into grain; man breaks
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Forced myself through it, the square into the circle. Is that all that it takes? To sculpt myself into you? I feel it: needle subverts the skin. Dreaded word latches to eardrum, underside of tongue. Inertia unbirths itself.
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Trepidation creeps on the spine, a tightrope act. We are both audience and whipped animal. Who will hold my hand? Hopefully myself. Every day I see is its own dying breath. This is the future we walk towards, a destination we cannot afford, a world of our own choosing but not of our making. This
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FRUITLESS Every evening, the pushing of the hour, and the staying of the day, you listened. Every time we touch, I count. But all I learnt in this exile was that every muscle in my hand ached for yours. Yes. We are not alright. This isn’t love, but a close second. Careless creator, why do
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death: it looms, above our car i can hear her, knocking on the sunroof a cloud, she; our car nothing but a coffin when the two of you fight over us i am reminded that i, too, am but dirt i suppose that’s all we were. when the car stops at a red light when
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Q. How did you know you loved? (5m) When we had ran all the streets to the end, learnt these veins weren’t enough to contain young blood. We could have traced these roads to each other’s heart by heart. When every flat was a hill and every sunrise we saw was first and the last,
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Stifle your stomach. Unswallow the thigh; grind chicks to bloody mist. White men in suits hung out to dry: unclothed all this meat’s the same mess. Unfill the vein, empty the conscience. Blank it. Blanche the brain. In this diet skinless breasts are but vital. Who washes away the blood does not matter. The product
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draft 5 after a lot of feedback from fellow participants of #SingPoWriMo. Much thanks to all. This is hopefully the last draft: I am content as is.
ugly stage 