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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will you grant my dying wish?

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.