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.
home / warmth / raw / uncensored / familiarity / muted / soft / sighs / wisps / curl / steady / darkness / solitude / silence / forgetting / ignorance / bliss / o v e r /
if this is what you want: i’ll kiss you as many times as you need
it has been scientifically proven that long weekends can produce Happier and Healthier citizens. who knew that the cure to my crippling depression would be to reduce my weekly jail sentence?
three day weekends are glorious beach days under the sun, ice cream cone in hand and fash mags in the other. it ends the way we all know: you fuss over the calories in your ice cream, it drips all over your fash mags (this season craziest trend: rihanna’s jelly slides that my late grandma wore to the market!) and you go home with a sunburn with sand between your toes. in other words, great, because when are beach days not the best days?
three days weekend means more sleep and god knows i need that. not that he ever grants my wishes, so here i am, an atheist molded by easy lies about catching up with work and hanging out with my girlfriends and mental health recovery so i don’t break down in school (which then induces mental breakdowns, and is so kind as to offer me three day weekends, and i am so so so grateful).
three days weekends means that the bitch next to me swallows me whole because this is a dog eat dog world and i am the runt of the litter. waking up at 10 everyday means i lose three hours of revision. multiply that by three days and i’ve had nine hours lesser to get work done. tragically that equates to me scoring straight Ds like the dumb freak i am because that nine hours would really have helped me master the seven chapters i have no clue about.
hey mr prime minister, maybe you’d like to strip me of my A star Asian identity and force me to take an off day, no whatsapp check allowed? after five months you’ll see smarter kids and hea-just kidding, time and tide waits for no small country in the world.
back to the books again. after all, chemistry is effective for mental health days.
inspo: why the hell do we pay scientists when we don’t bloody listen to them?
answers to my prayers: don’t humans do everything for the Aesthetics?
it is of utmost importance that you rest as much as you work, drones the official clad in grey as she talks about how all work and no play makes jack a dull boy and jill a dull girl.
there are muted snores puffing from the hall of students, bags clutched tightly against chests. beside me, the top class drag their pens across chemistry practicals like weary oxes ploughing up and down the fields. my eye twitches as i remember how i haven’t opened my writing blog since forever (at least a monday has passed and the law of mondays still apply). there are so many instances when the depression spills up above my throat into my mouth spilling onto worktables like wave breaking on the seabed, but i have no time to spare when i am juggling a proposal, three
individual group projects, three tutorials and two lectures reading, all due yesterday. the number beside Write grows larger everyday, stuffed full with empty words (writing reflects your soul, and that’s true because i am just a hollow shell full of Pretentious Poetry that means absolutely nothing to my future in the tiny red dot of Science Field Careers. )
these days i feel like my skin is stretching across my flesh like a snake bursting out of its skin. every morsel of food tastes a little more bitter than the last and the calculator in my head is a lottery machine from how fast the numbers whizz. the irony weighs heavy on my tongue when i remember that i am time starved and running round the clock, one lap two laps three laps GO FASTER GO FASTER here in singapore we do 30 hours of work in 24.
i don’t recognize the man in the mirror. no amount of asking will change her ways my ways our ways. if you wanna make the world a Better Place, then look at yourself, and crawl to bed.
to wake up at 3am later to finish math.
drink and drown the pain away: slip your tongue in my mouth and lick away all my worries