on to my fifth heartbreaker

i had heartbreaker #4 and heartbreaker #5 hold my heart in their palms and leave it behind in their pockets to wash. but heartbreaker #4 is a story for another day.

heartbreaker #5 texts me when he is down or when he is in need of support and i know that he does this but i am so weak when he croons my name on the keyboard, saccharine sweet like how i like my romance. he simpers, he begs, he sends me smiley faces and he punctuates his texts with casual concern and titillating trills about his day like he knows. with friendship lingering on the tip of my tongue, i give him my hand, my heart and my bank account.

heartbreaker #5 is surrounded by his multitude of friends, each congratulating him and thumping him on the back, raucous yells of i’m so proud of you! and i suddenly feel inferior in my dumpy school skirt when i look at his gang, all slicked back hair and shapely almond eyes. my market florist flowers, arranged by the kind old auntie who didn’t have the right bouquet wrapping stands limply beside the lush boxes of roses in colors of the sunset that make his dimpled grin even more ethereal.

heartbreaker #5 smiles at me when i stumble over my congratulations and fumble around awkwardly, going in for a half hug half handshake. he pulls back, snakes his arm around me and pulls me in for a hug. when it is over i realize i am shaking, but i will my voice to be even and ask for a picture, together. his teeth is on full display as his eyes crinkle sympathetically. he rejects me.

i say it’s okay and avoid the lingering glances of pity sent my way.

heartbreaker #5 makes me feel like a charity case, like every smile he bestows upon me is a donation of his rich charms for a girl too poor of them. he makes me feel used, like i am his twenty third choice pick that he only remembers as the girl he knows is willing to do anything for him because she thinks that they have friendship between them. it feels stupid to say it now but i felt happy and safe in his arms, his hands holding me close against his chest with my cheek pressed against his neck. for a moment i we were one, but he drew back and the illusion was gone. i still feel the ghost of his breath tickling my face.

heartbreaker #5 texts me when i reached home twenty five minutes before midnight, my chest eerily heavy but also so empty.  he calls me by name and i remember how my name slips off his tongue, easy the way i am to him. this goodnight text comes after i tried not to burst into tears on the streets and i want to tell him that i didn’t enjoy myself, but i didn’t have the heart to.

 

_

love doesn’t make you blind: desperation does 

i don’t want you to love me: i want you to want to love me

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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.

___

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 :__)

 

 

you will be found

dedicated to every person who’s ever loved me. it means the world. thank you.

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failing doesn’t get easier even after seventeen years. falling still hurts like fuck, the way the gravel rips my skin raw open and the first gush of blood still nips angrily across my tingling skin and my leg is still as numb as the first time i fell. the pain is still as acute when i come out of the hall with the sinking feeling of i’m going to fail. i already knew i was going to fail but this didn’t make the blank paper and swimming words any better. failing is still lump in my throat that makes swallowing the news so damn difficult. every day is a struggle when instagram feeds and twitter timelines are filled with someone’s else success. i want to be happy for you but your brilliance is a reminder of everything i want to be but will never achieve. i want to be pulled up into honey warm hugs and have a shoulder to cry into and a chest to nuzzle and i want a hand to stroke my matted hair and lips to whisper it will be fine i still love yous into the shell of my ear but it doesn’t happen. i go home to a microwaved muffin and i jump into bed and pull the covers tight over myself even if it is only two fifty in the afternoon. when i come to at seven i am disoriented and the dark sky outside is starless. dead the way i am, not a spark of light within sight. i have my dinner (microwaved again because i don’t trust my trembling fingers to light the gas and i know that my kerosene tears would start to burn if i lit up the stove) and the house is eerily silent. i am left alone with my thoughts so i jump back to bed and scroll through my phone aimlessly. i see my little prince and my heart aches for the way he will always be happy without me.

ping ping ping 

1 whatsapp message

1 instagram dm

i ignore the whatsapp message even if it is from s, because i feel like i cannot face her today. my fingers slip into my ig dm and the words that come next draw all the breath out of my throat: at least tuesday is over, right? that’s what you wanted! my heart is pounding sixty miles an hour. you remembered, i want to say, you remembered. the tears are welling up and my heart suddenly feels better.

2 whatsapp messages

3 whatsapp messages 

4,5,6 whatsapp messages

i slide open the text from a. it says i found something, venus and i am too tired to say much so i type a ?. the reply that comes is swift: a picture of finger heart with my name on it and i am going crazy because i find it oddly endearing. i laugh.

i open up s’s text and i read it and i cry because it’s been six months since i’ve felt anything. and i cry and cry and cry and cry and

i’m still crying today because

i’ve been found.

______________________

not poetry not prose just word vomit. it’s been what, half an hour and this track already means the world to me. at first i thought that this was going to be inspiration porn 101 you are great and good and loved so don’t be depressed! because when has depression ever meant anything except Easy Mental Health Topic Everyone Talks About But Doesn’t Actually Understand or diversity quota to act like we care for the mentally ill even when we make fucking ableist jokes every day. but i digress. i have been crying at my laptop screen for half an hour because this is something. idk. it’s almost two in the afternoon but i am tired and speechless. give it a listen. oh, and don’t forget the tissues.

winter wonderland

the ghost of your lips against mine is foreign as it is familiar, not unlike the feeling of whispered forevers slipping out of your mouth when you think your hoodie is muffling your words. take me back to when you’d pull my sweater tighter round me and send me off with promises of /see you later/s, let me relive when you’d flop down beside me to scrub the dishes because no one else would, (the look in your eyes told me that it wasn’t the truth) so we’d wash away in comfortable silence, elbows bumping. i am a girl of the tropics, fiery skin freezing up over under 5°C air and howling winds, but you always thawed it when you shuffled closer beside me, body heat seeping into mine till my insides were warm and fuzzy.
i loved you. i fell in love with you. i love you. i fell out of love with you.