a belated guide on making new year resolutions

this guide has come three years and two months late. during this time i have learnt to hate myself.

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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.

it’s never enough.

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.

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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

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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 :__)

 

 

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FUCKBOYS: FUCK OFF

this is why i stopped fucking with guys: the misogyny got way too much for me. i am not a cumsock nor a fuck hole for you to unload your ego into. i am not here to pick up your fragile masculinity or to stitch it back together. i am not here to blow on the wounds of your bruised ego. i have stayed silent for far too long about the way your knees brush against my front or the way your hands linger on my ass. every fling i’ve ever had had one thing in common: there was a guy who wanted to feel superior, but this was a chick who was too aggressive and too loud, so she got dumped. for years i have preened when i am described as fiery, but now i am tired of it. why is it that the guy who spoke over me during our feminism debate not fiery or aggressive? why is it that the boy who speaks passionately about screwing girls any less /radical/ than i am? why am i held up to double standards? when a guy touched me today i turned to glare at him, but he smiled before scowling. you lie under the euphemism of fuckboy when you are a sexual predator. society has made you an acceptable aesthetic. you embrace the name fuckboy but when i call you a predator you bare your teeth at me and i remember what a privilege it is to be angry and not afraid.

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this is why i scream: men are T R A S H

hail ye: an ode to feminism

Protected: what i learn from school

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Protected: NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO BURY IN HELL

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