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.

_

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

hail ye: an ode to feminism

I KEEP US IN MY WALLET (NOT MY MIND)

  • these are grainy moments burned into pixels: your laugh, brilliant as i steal a glance; my face, blemished but radiant, even as my hair falls over my face; our nights, your fingers curled loosely around mine, my lips on your shoulder. these are our souls burned and made tangible, lying solidly against my crinkled bedsheets when they slip out of of my treasure trove. but why is it that i cannot remember what exactly we were? these are grainy moments, not in my mind: your laugh, muted; my face, blurred; our nights, ebbed.

 

THIS LOVE IS WHY I LIVE

this was just like every other camp: the-night-before-anxiety hit me full on like twenty textbooks, i dragged myself and tried to cheer up, butter cup, made one friend, changed my mind about how god awful this was supposed to be, fell in love with the warmth of everyone, blinked back the tears when the goodbyes came, and made my way home.

this is just like every other camp: the people were so different from the last, but i loved them anyway. i loved the way we’d have our nightly feasts, calories be damned. i loved the ways we’d play cat and mouse, bated breaths and flushed cheeks pressed against closet doors when someone was rapping, rapping at our chamber door. i loved the way we’d banter with one another, exasperated laughter and poker faces meeting the most awful jokes ever. i loved the way we’d have each other’s back, you telling me to sleep even if i hadn’t done enough, or the way we’d give our all even if exhaustion made itself home on our eyelids.

this might just be like every other camp, when we drift apart because we’re all so busy, and live across the country from each other. maybe your faces will start to blur a little in my mind and maybe your names won’t curl as comfortably around my tongue, but this is enough. you made me happy these for days, and i don’t think i’ll forget the taste of this love on my tongue, not ever.

it made me want to live, even if just for a while. and i’m thankful enough.

_

babes, this love will never end: my heart will always love you

 

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.

WHEN SUMMER WENT ASKEW

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.

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO BURY IN HELL

something tells me that the sweet taste of eternal freedom from bigoted fuckers who use triggered like my fears are your fucking joke, chemistry tutorials that i am magically able to do after my lecturer reads out my notes out like Jacob Sartorius’ latest flops, inconsiderate public transport users who scuff my white shoes trying to win musical chair in the 8am rush and a life i care nothing for is what i crave most.

bloody let me burn in my frustration fueled tears like lava running down my cheeks. i am mount vesuvius burying my depression anxiety feelings personality under the influx of D grades over-commitments (un)reasonable homework. my tear tracks are dead springs that come alive, anger hatred despair snaking across my face but i can never conceal this hate in me.

 

THREE DAYS TO CURE MY PERENNIAL DEPRESSION

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?