my knees are pressed against yours under this oddly shaped table. it feels strangely intimate, the pulse of your skin against mine and i wonder if you can hear the way my heart sings for you. your smile is easy on your face and it makes my breath catch in my throat when the radiance sweeps me off my feet easily.
your eyes are round and panicked, wet the way puppies’ eyes are. your hand is flailing anxiously and your voice is going at hundred miles an hour, words tumbling one after another and it’s almost endearing the way the child in you is still alive. i brush my hand across yours and pull it towards me, and the look of trust in your face makes me feel like i could do this f o r e v e r.
i would hardly ever call myself a damsel in distress except when the walls of the world threaten to snare me in its razor sharp teeth. the way you come up to beside me makes me feel so relieved i could cry. for a moment i feel like i want to grab your hand in mine but the look you send my way is enough to blanket the anxiety rippling through my veins. i settle for walking a little closer to you.
maybe our hands don’t fit right but i feel like i am holding the world in my palm.
singing to your flowers makes them grow better
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
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
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.