abyssflowers.

I lay there
in the silence of tangled sheets
hoping you would
breathe a word of affection
in the cold dawn of morning

You swallowed
your thoughts
where no one could pry
but your touch always reassured me in a way that words could not

I traced the marks
on your skin
as you lovingly left more
on my neck

You explored my body
with the intricate dance
of your fingertips
as I collapsed into fits
of laughter and joy
that was foreign to me

I sank into the warmth
of your embrace
and tasted a longing
on your lips

You made me promise
not to drown myself in
the abysmal depth of sadness,
but to laugh and grow
because you knew
there would be others after you

I hope you'll find
what you're looking for
in a place
a promise
a person

You left to start on your journey;
I hope you find your way home

I heard of this place before.

They told me that all who come here
seek shelter from the noise and the chaos
that surrounds the everyday happenings in the concrete jungle.

I left everything behind and came to start over
in this little emptiness of nothing.
This place is small,
sheltered,
vaccant and
hollow,
as though the only companionship I have is
the echo of my footsteps across the wooden floorboards.
But given what had recently transpired–
it will do.

The house is simple.
It has one bedroom,
a living room with a phonograph thrown in and
a tiny little kitchen with a sink that faces the window.
There is a small patch of land in the back
that left remnants of what used to
blossom and thrive beautifully
under the loving care of one with a green thumb.

I thank my porter who responded with a grunt
as he heaved my bags onto the path,
tipped his hat and drove away.
The rumbling sound of his engine
gradually faded as he drove off
and I was soon left to the company of cicadas
as they bid adieu to the sun to welcome the moon.

I lug both my bags into the house and
carefully transport them up to my room.
Most of my things are brand new
save for whatever I managed to salvage
after the incident.

I unpack my things
and remove the padding–
newspaper, bubble wrap and all.
I hang up my clothes and
do best to make my new bedroom
feel just like home.

And in a tiny corner
in the wooden clothes cupboard
I gently place the most painful
item I managed to salvage–
a pair of half-charred baby shoes,
once worn.

Ten years ago I told Liza I loved her.

That was the first time those three words
escaped my mouth and
I remember how she laughed
as she took my trembling hands in hers
and tenderly kissed my knuckles.

That was the last time I saw her.

Liza was everything and anything in between;
I remember different parts of her
as though they were yesterday.
There was her favourite cherry sorbet in spring
and her excitement on the fourth of July.
Our apartment was stacked with
the endless collection of vinyls she hoarded
and the tubes of watermelon flavoured chapstick
she always misplaced.

Liza was a petite frame
with an uncontainable amount of curiousity-
her naivety complemented her carefree spirit
albeit dangerously, that is.
I remember when she would regale me with
her encounters of friendly strangers on the bus
or once where 'that horrid man ran off with
my purse when I distracted by the delicious smell
wafting from the bakery'.

It was precisely ten minutes past eight
that her brother called to deliver the news.
Liza was always determined to
focus straight ahead
when it came to her future
but sadly forgot about the other directions
when she crossed the road.
I suppose it was rather inappropriate of me
to find humour in the manner of her death
but a little voice told me that
she probably would have laughed too.

It has been awhile since
Liza ever crossed my mind
and I have grown out of
the shell I hid under.
But sometimes I lay in bed
at night and wonder
why I still taste watermelon
when I kiss another.

Once there was a little boy
who shined ever so bright.
He befriended the sun by day
and whispered secrets to the moon at night.

The little boy felt lonely
so he ventured beyond his world.
Deep in the dark, gloomy shadows
he stumbled upon a girl.

At first the boy was hesitant
and unsure of what to say.
Eventually he mustered his courage
and invited her to play

Soon he found something very strange
about the little girl in black-
when he tried to make conversation
she never uttered a word back.

Eventually the boy felt tired
and as he slept late into the night
The girl crept slyly into his heart
and switched off all the lights.

24 hours in 1 day; January 24.
That was the mnemonic I used to remember your birthday.

Ironically enough,
you cried when you told me
while I was on a strange, jovial high.
The conversation was speckled
with laughter and disappointment yet
I'll honestly tell you that conversation
was the best we've probably had in a while.

You asked me why I wasn't upset or angry.
I told you I probably
suffered from 'delayed reaction syndrome'
and I'll probably cry later
when everything hits me.

The first time I cried
was when I examined my body
and realized your love bite was no longer there.
I suppose that was when
it truly hit me I had lost you.

I cried in several intervals-
horrid, interrupted, breaks of unfulfilled cries.
It was at two in the morn',
then five when I had to pee,
ten when I thought of you again
and one in the afternoon
when I told myself to just let go.

As I sat and cried,
I thought of how pathetic I looked
and laughed to myself
as I imagined telling you this.
Then I stopped laughing.

I turned to the pianoforte for solace,
thinking perhaps the dancing keys
would soothe me.
I only managed four chords
before breaking down.

I told myself out loud to stop crying.
Eventually, I just let myself
wallow and cry
because I knew I needed to to heal.

I asked you if you were happy
and after the second ask,
you said you were.

You asked me in frustration
why I didn't hate you.
I'm still trying
to figure that out myself.

It amazes me on how
I harbour no negative feelings
towards you.
I hope it stays this way.

You asked 'Are you okay?'
and then you answered
'No, of course
you're not okay,
what a stupid question'
and then you said
'I'm so sorry' and
ended it with my name.

I replied 'It's alright'
and then you said
'No, it isn't'
and the cycle repeated itself.

You said I would have more time
to focus on my assignments now
and that I wouldn't have to look
at the awful stickers that
accompanied your messages.
Somehow, it didn't make me feel any better.

I told you to take care of her,
to be chivalric and make sure
she walked on the inside of the road
and to hold her hand for reassurance-
just like you used to do for me.

As I got out of the car,
I wished you a happy life.
But I genuinely mean it,
I do.

-Two days later; January 28.

I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
hard.

2.
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.

3.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.

4.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.

5.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.

6.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.

7.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.

8.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.

9.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.

10.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
hard.

”

—	Rachel Wiley

"And then there was tragedy and death in her eyes
and she told me with a broken smile
that she never felt more alive."

I will travel all over the world
and cross continents and swim oceans
and leave bits and pieces of myself
scribbled on walls, carved on wood,
bitten into old apple cores, and
stained as teardrops on paper.

I will meet many people
and dance and laugh and cry with them
and taste their exotic flavours
and immerse myself in cultures
way beyond my comprehension.

I will leave you almost as quickly as I arrived
and we will not miss each other
but only think fondly of the memories that once were
and always will be.

Hollow, hollow- o sweet sorrow.
I'll dwell with you, dear friend,
and slowly understand why it never pains me when others leave.
Sometimes I think that I am not meant to experience,
but maybe merely to observe.

And it was there in that moment when our lips met,
that I truly understood who she is.

She kissed me with such force
that I first confused with passion.
That maybe thoughts were equal
and feelings were requited.
But love felt hollow
and the feelings were numb–
but soon she started to tell me
a story without words.

Her fingers then began to move daintly–
a light pitter-patter up my arms.
Her mouth moved with mine
almost in synch with her hands
that now tousled my hair.

As she let herself undone before me
just like I always fantasized she would,
I closed my eyes to fully bask in
the beauty of a dream turned reality.

Her kisses now sounded like a silent plea
for God knows what troubles this poor soul.
Her light gasps felt as though they suffocated her-
and I could swear the tear on my cheek wasn't mine.

And so if anyone were to ask
for a plain explanation of
the unraveling events of that day:

I kissed because I love her;
she kissed because she didn't.

Francine Silverman was a pretty little lass,
with a button little nose and a red tangled mess.
Francine was as happy as happy could be,
right until she hit puberty.

One morning she awoke to a spotted invasion,
dots and spots
forming ugly constellations.
The red was no longer restricted to her head-
a plain fact that now filled her with dread.

Francine was then christened with several new names-
many that were taunting and gave her unwanted fame.
Francine was strong and simply shrugged it off,
no one knew what she hid behind her laugh.

Cruel words, however, broke her fragile little wall,
She could take it no longer; she began to fall.

The very next day,
a new spot stained her bed-
one that went
right through her head.

Oh darling take us back to the summer days
where breezes play in our hair
Where we'd stuff our mouths with crumbly cookies
and danced and sang and laughed and cried without a care in the world

I tell you it is indeed a tremendously terrible tragedy
to be in a place where you thought you had solace
but yet be unable to call it a home.

Night darkness in sight and I feel my lips
shape themselves into a deep parentheses.
I am happy, I think.
I look forward to the future with a mixed sense of trepidation and anticipation.
I know not of what is yet to occur, and yet I bask in the uncertainty of it.
I have dreams and things I want to do and feel and experience
and I thank God that I have parents who are understanding.

It took awhile and a fair bit of observation to understand
that I am a drifter-
mainly in social conventions, and perhaps-
in future occupations as well.
I have no fixed home and yet am able to find
what i need in areas I wander and seek.

What will become of me?
Here I am plotting my romanticized future in my head
and yet I could be dead tomorrow.

Oh! The beauty in uncertainty.

I look at you and see all the ways a soul can bruise, and I wish I could sink my hands into your flesh and light lanterns along your spine so you know that there’s nothing but light when I see you. -Shinji Moon

Dearest,

I want you to know that it is okay to find something sad and lovely at the same time.
I want you to know that you should not fear Death,
but embrace him because Death is a friend-
a mere companion to ease your lonesome journey across
the bridge to the other side.
I want you to know I care deeply for you
and I will write you as many wordy letters oozing with words of adoration
because I know even the tiniest, kindest words will crack a smile on your thin lips-
albeit the headstrong, different person you are.

I want you to know that I will never give you flowers,
even after you die,
because I know how much it pains you to see
something lovely picked to die
for the temporary appreciation by another.

Most of all, I want you to grow and be happy.
I want you to learn to embrace your flaws endearingly-
all the noticable dents and creases that streak and damage your once smooth complexion
but never once leaving a scar on your personality.

I want you to feel what I feel.
I want you to grow to love the person I fell shamelessly for.

I feel the sudden need to immerse myself in Christmas and all its good feels

and to truly embrace the social aspect of consumerism and all the supposedly 'feel good'

things the world has to offer.

I want the glorious scent of gingerbread wafting through the air,

tempting me to reward my palates with its oh so yummy flavour.

I want to see snow.

I want to crane my head back and watch

each individual piece with its personal mark and pattern

fall lazily from the sky

and ever so sway effortlessly with the gentle breeze of the cool air.
I want to face my palm skywards and wait for one of the delicate pieces
to fall onto my hand and melt upon touch-
as though I am destructive with everything I come in contact with.

I want to hear Mr. Bublé crone me happy holiday tunes with that
deep mellow voice of his
and I want to feel giddy and nice and just plain non-thinking and worrying
as I stroll down the streets and visually absorb all the
red and white paraphernalia the stores have on display
to entice customers to spend their money.

On a side note,
it has been two days since my return and
I am thankfully recovering from my disorientation.
I suppose being back in the comfort of my yellow chair
makes me miss the busyness of the street
where you'd walk for miles
and mingle with the thousands of other worry bodies
who you'll never know the full stories of.

My yearning to work in a place where I can make people happy
may have stemmed from the surprising desires of kindness
I have hidden and rooted deep in me.

I feel a bit lost at the moment,
and I wish to drown myself in the good Christmas vibes this year.
I hope the Christmas of the year of the previous' will not repeat itself.

I wish you well and I congratulate you on your survival.

And the stars-
they kissed you gently as you cast your eyes heavenwards
in hope of a bright future or a better tomorrow.
The moon smiled benignly and
nodded knowingly
as she kept all the secrets in the expanse of the universe to herself.

And your eyes-
they show me the stories
your mouth failed to speak into words.
No matter how much you try
you just can't seem to connect the complex
trains of thought to your voice.

And even though you're far away
and we're separated by the
never ending blue wrinkles of the ocean and
grass that's always greener on the other side and
every other thing in between-

I love you.
I still do.

There are so many ways to die.

You could overdose on the things that give you temporary happiness.

You could get an adrenaline rush from the free spirited plunge
and feel the blow of the wind against your face,
heart rising to your brains,
before you hit the solid ground and
feel your blood slowly trickle out of you,
like a solid piece melting on the inside and spreading far and wide and covering everything in its path.

You could, also, cross to the other side
and ignore the loud beeps and horns,
but always, always, keep your eyes fixated on one point ahead of you.
And the most tragic and anticipating part is that you never know when,
something will just hit and crash into you
from either your left, or your right,
and you're just hurled straight off in the opposite direction of the force,
and you're flying, flying...
several seconds in the air-
before you drop and flip and tumble and crash,
and your beautiful eyes no long blinking but forever fixated beyond.

But the worse kind of death you could possibly subject yourself to
is one where you let others live your life for you.
You subject yourself to everything the materialistic world
asks of you; everything it tells you you need in order to succeed.
Oh! The wistful chase for paper and it's ill-gotten gains.
Day by day, you toil on and on
climbing rung by rung up the ladder
that seems to never reach the top.
Everything is mundane;
Everything is routine.
You're breathing but you're not living.

You allow yourself to be consumed by what is taught and expected of you.
You give up chasing your desire for experiences-
simply because they tell you paper is more important.

This is the worse, albeit physically not as painful, kind of death.
No sudden rush of blood to your head-
No hypnotic stare before anticipating the crash.
You just drag yourself slowly- day after day.
And then you die.

You have no idea how grateful I am to have pulled through 'till this day.
Officially five more days and then I'll be emancipated-
once again free to explore and journey and pursue all that fills
my old soul with glorious bliss and intensifies
the passion and excitement and interest in all things that makes my personality giddy with good vibes.

There's a particular day I look forward to
and if all goes as plans- oh, I just don't want to spoil it for myself.
But I'm confident I will be happy.

This will sound incredulously sanctimonious and condescending
but I will be honest and say-
I am glad I won't have to work with any of you for the time being
and I'm really, really positive I won't miss most of you.

Oh, the truth may hurt but the burden is lifted.
That is my honest sentiment to you.

Fare thee well.

You know what is good for me now?

Torn up uneven pieces of wholemeal bread
drenched in an ocean of milky oatmeal.

I've always been a true devout consumer of toasted bread and its crunchy goodness
but having my bread now soaking in oatmeal mix-
its soft texture absorbing all the grainy nutrients
and releasing a wave full of oh-so-tasty goodness upon palate contact-
ah, you should leave me and my food in privacy.

I'm still avidly devouring food porn- visually, of course.
Even though I'm on this new food journey,
the photos do evoke some good reminiscing of flavours and texture.

This is a non-fiction post yet again; the raconteur in me may be in slumber.

My dear reader, I must assure you, unlike the others below- this is not a story.

I deliberated on whether or not I should post this for you,
but considering the dramatic turn of events that have
surprisingly affected your palate in a rather,
should we say, strange and refreshing manner,
I thought it was necessary to highlight this momentous phase here.

Surprisingly enough, this craving was inception in you
due to a college assignment, of which
I shall refrain from reminding you of
due to the tormentous suffering it has inflicted on your artistic well being.

Vegetables (does this strike a chime now?) were constantly on your mind
presented in the most colourful, vibrant and wholesomely delicious manner-
and oh! You could almost feel the crunch of health as you savoured the dish
in your thoughts.

I must also add, that it was your time of the month,
the time where cravings for the sweet and occasionally out of the blue treats
would normally kick in.
Strangely enough, you craved vegetables only.
And no, I don't mean the slimy, graphic regurgitated kind you normally detest.

A certain Cinna friend also introduced a new form of workout to you
and her happy healthy eating ways soon brought you to see
healthy food in a whole new light.
Two trips to the organic land was all it took to make you a believer-
well, an almost convert, anyway.

Now, I don't know how you are living your life at the moment,
whether or not you may be some stringent
pesce/lacto-ovo/vegan/flexi-tarian,
but the old you from way back when
would have squirmed at the thought of
this veggie craving and instead
be fantasizing about
cheese as it is stretched lazily and long
'till t detaches itself from the pizza crust.

Again, I must remind you this whole phase
is very much foreign to your younger you,
but the strange thing is the plain fact
that all of this made you happy.

I have cogitated and analyzed this whole phase
and honestly speaking it may be
some sick twisted psychological game
you were playing with yourself
to get your endorphins and serotonin (le happy hormone)
up and running in the various streams of your body.

But, I must reiterate, you were happy-
or well at least not dismal and sad-
in this phase of your life.

So this concludes the small reminder and little update
of how the current you is doing at the moment.
You are at the conjecture of considering going flexi-
and this may be the crossroad of lifestyle change for you.

Take as many cares as you can;
I hope you live long enough to read this.

I would assume- after much cogitation and deliberation -that my tendency to shy away from the others around me would stem- conversely and ironically enough- from the sole fact that I am lonely.

Silly child, you may chide.
There are so many around you-
simply pick one and strike up a conversation!

However plain and straightforward the aforementioned suggestion may be,
a thought in me seems to express the fact
that I long for an individual of complementary frequencies-
both in thought and perhaps, if it's not too much to ask- interests.

Ah, now you see the dilemma.

A queer oddity who finds such small joy
in peculiar, unorthodox and occasionally morbid subjects
makes friends the same way the others would.
But most of the time the camaraderie
is only transient; surface.

Only after completing the series of
general social exchanges and trading basic personal information
does the oddity find, albeit once in awhile,
another strange soul with perks and quirks.

And everyone, even the others,
know the great, albeit small, surge of delight
when stumbling upon another whom,
amazingly enough,
was created strangely just as you.

Brisk scent of smoked salmon tinged with mint and lemon whiffs by and teases my nose as the quiet yet quaint little cottage shop buzzes with the whispers and tiny laughters of the pier folk.

I politely request for warm toasted crumpets and hot milk tea to warm the ten bendy frosty joints of my wrists.

I watch the ships sail by at a snail's pace and stretch out my index finger behind the stern, as if helping the ship to sail faster. The window quickly fogs up again and I wipe my sleeve across it in a circular motion- as though to make a window in a window.

I am alone and unknown in this little town but yet I've never felt lighter than I ever have. Strangers are kind and the food- oh the food!

This place is picturesque; quintessentially a piece extracted from my travels. My mind meanders to all the things I left behind; all those awful things I gladly do not miss.

Slowly, I allow myself to permeate through the four lined frame;

finally, I evanesce.

This is for Ocean, who is stuck sinking into this
depressingly painful lack of interest, nay, motivation
to continue living this daily cycle over and over and over again.

This is where I can actually see us being right now,
all murderously taxing responsibilities brushed off our tired shoulders
and just sitting by the bank talking about endless things
we've forgot to talk about;
snacking on delish crunchies and swearing to burn it off on the run later.

I am so done with college.
My soul is despairingly dead and
I feel all my artistic drive and passion for all things
beautiful and inspirational and just mind shockingly fantastic
slowly drain and seep out of my pores
and any other exit points that leads
the tiny parts of me out of my body.

I am a large fabric of delicate skin
slowly decaying on a frame of calcium.
I am allowing myself to be eaten
by the abstract monster of society-
the very thing I vehemently opposed to in the first place.
If this does not stop soon, I'll soon become one of them.
The collared, slave driven, sleep-deprived zombies.

I can't explain the way I feel right now;
well not at once, at first.
Even if you greet me the next day I don't think I could explain
how I feel on the inside.

I am dying.

Pages

you and I

An Ekebom and Hemmingway Inspired Piece

Long Live Liza

The Little Bright Light

To love is to

10 Things

a quiet yearning of things wanted

tulips embrace

fran the nan, not so bland

a future thought

dearest- always once and forevermore

state of the union

la luna knows

death at crossroads

five days counting

soggy bread

food phase change

abyss calling

transpire through the frames

oceans ago and a dead frame

Categories

The Collection