the last time i saw blood i promised myself that it would be the last time ever.
i hate the feeling when i cut myself on a shard of glass because it is a reminder that i am broken. that i am flawed and not enough, not ever. it is a reminder that i am my own greatest enemy: that after years of sword-tips at my throat or sharpened insults slicing through my skin, it is always my pieces that break me open. there are demons in my head and i know that there is no quelling them, that the barrage of tears accompanying my heaving sobs is just a glass of water against a ravaging fire. after years of wheezing through my mouth when my nose gets so runny i cannot breathe, i still have not blown out the fire that has settled itself in the war torn trenches of my ribcage. i am tired of picking up my spear and going to war with myself, only to stab myself over and over.
you can set the world on fire: all you have to do is breathe
there is no firework finale: there is no plane crash shrapnel
a/n: panic attacks and social anxiety are not hot lol. back to feeling like shit and struggling to keep my head above. im coping by delving back into slam poetry, which is pretty rad.
i had heartbreaker #4 and heartbreaker #5 hold my heart in their palms and leave it behind in their pockets to wash. but heartbreaker #4 is a story for another day.
heartbreaker #5 texts me when he is down or when he is in need of support and i know that he does this but i am so weak when he croons my name on the keyboard, saccharine sweet like how i like my romance. he simpers, he begs, he sends me smiley faces and he punctuates his texts with casual concern and titillating trills about his day like he knows. with friendship lingering on the tip of my tongue, i give him my hand, my heart and my bank account.
heartbreaker #5 is surrounded by his multitude of friends, each congratulating him and thumping him on the back, raucous yells of i’m so proud of you! and i suddenly feel inferior in my dumpy school skirt when i look at his gang, all slicked back hair and shapely almond eyes. my market florist flowers, arranged by the kind old auntie who didn’t have the right bouquet wrapping stands limply beside the lush boxes of roses in colors of the sunset that make his dimpled grin even more ethereal.
heartbreaker #5 smiles at me when i stumble over my congratulations and fumble around awkwardly, going in for a half hug half handshake. he pulls back, snakes his arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. when it is over i realize i am shaking, but i will my voice to be even and ask for a picture, together. his teeth is on full display as his eyes crinkle sympathetically. he rejects me.
i say it’s okay and avoid the lingering glances of pity sent my way.
heartbreaker #5 makes me feel like a charity case, like every smile he bestows upon me is a donation of his rich charms for a girl too poor of them. he makes me feel used, like i am his twenty third choice pick that he only remembers as the girl he knows is willing to do anything for him because she thinks that they have friendship between them. it feels stupid to say it now but i felt happy and safe in his arms, his hands holding me close against his chest with my cheek pressed against his neck. for a moment i we were one, but he drew back and the illusion was gone. i still feel the ghost of his breath tickling my face.
heartbreaker #5 texts me when i reached home twenty five minutes before midnight, my chest eerily heavy but also so empty. he calls me by name and i remember how my name slips off his tongue, easy the way i am to him. this goodnight text comes after i tried not to burst into tears on the streets and i want to tell him that i didn’t enjoy myself, but i didn’t have the heart to.
love doesn’t make you blind: desperation does
i don’t want you to love me: i want you to want to love me
hj* and i were boo boo the fools but taking the long route meant trekking through these hipster places-and appreciating what singapore has to offer at 4pm: authentic local coziness punctuated with the tang of local dialects and coffeeshop talk in the air. pair new with old for juxtaposition, but in that moment, all i could think of was a union of modernism and tradition like and yin and yang, two entities so different but also so natural on each other’s skins. The sun fires the air around me and i can feel the telltale moisture of sweat running down my back but i have never felt more at home than right now, middle aged uncles and aunties with their teh-os and gao sui dais dotted around instagram worthy murals, carefree and alive.
* name censored
anyway, this was on a trek at one north (timbre+) and pictures will be up on my writing instagram, which i have finally linked to after 681982 years of procrastination(!!!)
this guide has come three years and two months late. during this time i have learnt to hate myself.
i. stop making it about other people
2016’s resolution was to get over the guy who held the universe in his eyes. his eyes were like black holes, deep and dark but also so potent. i forgot that space is an infinite abyss of silent hell. when he dropped my heart, the world blinked, and then it moved on. it hasn’t ever been the same then. i tripped over my memories of him.
2017’s resolution was to exercise that self love. go for a jog when the weight of responsibilities and toxicity crashes down on my shoulders. my feet pounding against concrete and blood rushing through my veins are all that i need to feel dead. i keeled over and threw up.
2018’s resolution was to clear the clutter in my life. sweep away the negativity. wash off the stench of rumors and hatred sent my way. trash the memories of what was possibly the worst year of my life, and focus on the good. i am (supposed to be) better than that mess of negativity on the table. i left the pile of rubbish in a corner of my heart. i’ve been hoarding the negative energy ever since.
ii. understand that the new year’s positivity lasts only a day
i start every year a little more jaded and cynical than the last, but i am a romantic who believes in the power of change. this year’s planner: washi tape? check. cute? double check. it has hipster monstera leaf vectors on it. cute calligraphy? done. my two years experience was made for this moment. motivational quotes? dusted and sprinkled liberally with icing powder.
two weeks into january, and card captor sakura: clear card hen is the only thing keeping me from spiralling into anxiety induced meltdowns and self hatred. 2018’s resolution is intact and safe, baby.
(just ignore those days spent pressed up against the door of bathroom stalls, legs trembling and mind chanting: it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok. it’s not ok and i try to muffle my sobs because i can hear them chattering on the other side of the door.)
iii. aim for the moon and if you miss, your body will smash against solid concrete
resolutions are named as such because they are an ideal. ideals however, are simply not practical, nor realistic. ceteris paribus is a lie. no energy loss is a theory. my happiness is a myth. perfect specialization has never been further from the truth.
how many stabs in the back does it take to kill? my body is a battleground: every bombshell of scorn etched into my skin, the razor sharp anger digging trenches into my flesh and the army of self confidence soldiers dying bloody deaths. i am familiar with the metallic tang of resignation and helplessness.
i hear the whispers like screams in my mind and i fall inwards on myself. tuck my shoulders in a little more. stop wearing my pink jacket even if i am freezing and my fingers are numb. stop fidgeting even if my legs are falling asleep. bowing my head more. speak a little softer. speak a little less.
iv. don’t make them
there is always a high. then comes the crash. the world burns.
you have my silence. just as you wished.
an ideal: keala settle is the baddest bitch
i’ve learnt to slam on the brakes: before i even turned the key
i climb, till the entire sun shines on my face: and suddenly i feel the branch give way
a/n: my anxiety is off the charts but it got super bad today. this piece takes on a rlly different tone, but yay to my growth as a writer i guess. lol. school hasnt been too hot and hopefully break will be good. shop me my wishlist: unlimited warm hugs, instant death and a shoulder to cry on. thanks! but in all honesty, i’m grateful for all the love here at pointilisms :__)
happy new year, with lots of love from pointilisms. i have never been one to believe in changing yourself come the slide of a hand to twelve midnight (more of that in january’s pieces), but i believe in the power of starting clean.
thank you for having been with me in 2017-silent and active readers alike. you give me one more reason to write, and for that i am grateful. i started pointilisms last year as a way to keep the writing mojo alive even after going to college. college is undeniably the most draining and painful milestone of my life, but i am always glad that i have a safe space in pointilisms. the freedom to post my first drafts-raw, fresh and unapologetically me is a privilege that i have come to embrace this past year. even as the year ahead is packed full of anxiety and tests (for me), i hope that i can draw the same comfort from my readers and pointilisms. it was an honor writing for all of you, and here’s to a 2018 when we write our souls down on writing blogs.
if i were to choose a word to sum up pointilisms in 2017, it would have been unapologetic. may we always have the bravery to speak up for what we believe in.
my knees are pressed against yours under this oddly shaped table. it feels strangely intimate, the pulse of your skin against mine and i wonder if you can hear the way my heart sings for you. your smile is easy on your face and it makes my breath catch in my throat when the radiance sweeps me off my feet easily.
your eyes are round and panicked, wet the way puppies’ eyes are. your hand is flailing anxiously and your voice is going at hundred miles an hour, words tumbling one after another and it’s almost endearing the way the child in you is still alive. i brush my hand across yours and pull it towards me, and the look of trust in your face makes me feel like i could do this f o r e v e r.
i would hardly ever call myself a damsel in distress except when the walls of the world threaten to snare me in its razor sharp teeth. the way you come up to beside me makes me feel so relieved i could cry. for a moment i feel like i want to grab your hand in mine but the look you send my way is enough to blanket the anxiety rippling through my veins. i settle for walking a little closer to you.
maybe our hands don’t fit right but i feel like i am holding the world in my palm.