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.
THIS, they whisper, is Exhibit A:
- my eyes are glossy from staring at the 50k word document on my laptop, my homework shoved aside but not forgotten. how could i ever forget what killed me? everything that kills me makes me wish i was dead.
- a tear slips out of my eyes as i cook my own dinner. there aren’t any onions on the chop board, just my determination. the microwave timer has never turned slower.
- i am breathing so fucking hard even as my mum is screaming for me to wash the dishes and my hand is a fucking aspen leaf as it trembles but why can’t i die?
- i sleep till twelve on saturdays. i reply 7am messages on whatsapp with a sflr. then i fall back to bed, my eyes shut. the ceiling is still as plain as it was when i was eleven.
- i don’t fuck with racism or ableism the way my classmates do. the teachers smile at them more anyway.
- maybe we should wait till we graduate. so we can focus on our studies. your message flashes through my mind and laughter is bitter on my tongue when i realize that you’re better off without me. sometimes i wish i could hold your hand, but i remember you have your eyes on a girl who isn’t me. am i selfish for wanting you to myself even when we agreed to see how it worked out?
- i was never worth it.
- every romantic encounter was always met with silence. it still kills me to think that i longed for a break up over whatsapp. maybe this is what commitment issues look like.
- i open the fridge every day when i come back home, even if i know mum hasn’t done the grocery shopping.
- i haven’t felt happy in two and a half years.
newton’s first law states that an object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an external force. it may be seen as a statement about inertia, that objects will remain in their state of motion unless a force acts to change the motion.
maybe this was what newton meant:
- depression keeps me gutted and motionless. some days i wait for mother to rip the covers off my body but it never happens, because i am a Big Girl who has to wake up on her own. instead i lay still and stop breathing. maybe if i pretend i’m dead long enough i might not have to face the world: too big too loud too much. it never works.
- somehow my fingers stay stuck on the twitter tab, no matter if four tests six deadlines seven thousand fucking expectations are looming over my head. nineteen doggos in and my will to die has not decreased.
- swallowing becomes so fucking hard when my skirt becomes tighter every day.
- no one understands when i say i am too depressed to eat/sleep/do my homework/continue to be a slave to the government. the glances sent my way are pitying and suddenly death seems to be a viable option.
- why does everyone make depression the subject of their mental health awareness project when they don’t give a fuck? i am not your token character to fill up a diversity quota. fuck off.
- how much force is is required to overcome the inertia of this body?
- i don’t know. i dropped physics.
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.
this is why i scream: men are T R A S H
hail ye: an ode to feminism
of all the things i have lost i miss my fucking sanity the most.
this fever is lawless the way it siezes my brain hostage, shoving degree celsius after degree celsius at me and i am screaming screaming screaming limbs too weak to flail and the words that fall out of my parched lips are tearful prayers to gods i do not believe in. this is what desperation tastes like: the way my sweat ransom is not enough to set me fucking free, the way my body crumples and falls to ground when the cool water i used to frolick in bites against my skin, no longer gentle kisses running away the magma mount in my head. desperation is the way i wear my thickest jacket in singapore’s fucking weather ot the way i force myself to sweat till i am blind or the way i force myself to cry. women earn 79 cents to every dollar a man earns, my vision is barbercue hazed while my stomach sloshes, a sick sound that threatens to let itself be heard and i wish i was dead. they say everyone is afraid of death and i want to laugh because i crave death the way you crave life.
why dont you kill yourself then? they whisper and i am buzzed.
i fear pain. i would rather be dead than writhing in bed, ghostly images telling me that have me thrashing in bed like the wild animal i am.
there is a dull pounding against my head, thud thud thud until it bounces off the hollow of my sky, ringing like the crow’s cry on summer’s evening. there is a judge with a gavel in his hand and with every thought of /i must give up/ he strikes a wooden mark, /this is where the world does not wait for you/, his gavel whispers, husky crackle amplifying until my head is flooded with sound waves.
there is a lava trail down my cheek.
my heart is as heavy as my schoolbag and the guilt from yet-to-be-forged test papers. these days slipping into my depression is as easy as sleeping into my problems. look on the bright side they say, so i do. my australian friend sleeps six hours on a regular basis but here in singapore i sleep four hours. (three in the morning and one in lectures because my eyes are weighed down by the weariness bore from days of juggling a test every other day. my stomach churns like the sea deranged, slosh slosh slosh and i have to press my lips together lest oceans pour out of my eyes and rivers up my parched throat.) dreaming is a foreign concept but when i do i see quiet, hear the way the sky is blue and the grass, green, and i can feel the sweetness in the air and taste the joy in my heart.
when i come to, my pillow is damp.
i plunge headfirst into schoolwork.