infinite tenderness

Being reunited with your first childhood love is something that feels very sudden, out of place, yet completely in place: fitting like a puzzle piece into your life. Seeing her again is like closing my eyes on a rollercoaster and opening them again only when they tell you to take off your seatbelt: and you feel like you’ve missed out on this whole middle chunk and you wished you were there to see it (yet you also don’t), so you just get the end product delivered to you. No labels. No preamble. Just the person with a smile that has shifted slightly and eyes that have lost and gained hope for what seems like centuries. And you remember seeing her joyous and naïve and ignorant, her eyes wide open like gemstones begging for light, for life to hit them. But it’s still all there. And the whiff you smell when she passes you is always the same and you know that if you were to squeeze her all into one drop of essential precious oil, it would smell as strongly and beautifully as it did three years ago. She wears scars now, but she also wears the same golden nail polish, and this little curious quirk has popped up in her- and it drives me crazy: her curiosity for life. She’s sticking her tongue out to taste what it feels like to be alive. And I’ll always feel this infinite tenderness towards her.

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aluminum plates/airplane ride

It feels so raw,

skin burns on every surface I

press onto.

I’m slicing myself up

to fit into the small seat

compartment

where both handles by

my side are magnets

pulling towards each other

 

the plane aches too.

like my mind,

it swindles,

wobbles,

trembles for a split

second.

before allowing a moment

of catatonic stillness

 

stillness that’s ready to

pounce

my thoughts

ready to bounce

off any

surface, just waiting

for the night light

to shine orange,

or the unlatching

of a seatbelt.

 

anything to grasp on to

hungrily, and

claim it

for its own,

interlaced with

the past,

and

maybe something

stranger.

 

i’ll sit back and allow

it all to

linger

to my mother//tug of war

broken thorns

scratch

catch

against

supple skin

arborescent fingertips

spin

vines around

the heart

the lungs

 

and you’ll want to exhale

but your ribcage

is climbing up

your throat

and you’ll want to

stay afloat

through the wetblack

glimmering

river of –

 

hope

strangling

despair

dangling from

anger

sprawling over

affection

 

it’s a tug of war

we switch between being

the rope

and the

hands

pulling,

pushing

each other apart

just to restart.

 

we’re both trying

to glimpse past

the haze between

our eyelashes

squeeze past –

sneak past,

the gap between

our two front teeth –

the gap between,

our heart,

our words

 

and we try,

and try,

and cry

and try

trip over each other’s

broken pieces

with glue in our hands

intentions

waiting for attention

 

sneaking glimpses

 

calloused fingers

spilling over the other’s cheeks

wiping away tears

and

dust from

everyday life

sinking into comfort

with a twinge of pain

but it’s home

anyway

so we don’t stare

anyway

 

and in the end

we look out

windows,

where the rain starts

abruptly

and we’ll be

softly

grazing,

gazing at the sky

 

and

we’ll find each other’s

shapes

in clouds

and sounds of

faraway lullabies

idealism, imagination, exaggeration

so, everytime i write on here in Times New Roman, I feel like I’m talking to a therapist, and I am, in fact my own therapist. I remember the TV show where the patient falls in love with their therapist, unluckily this cannot happen with me (though I so very wish for it, and I wonder how it feels like to love oneself). However, that is a topic for another talk and it’s quite a long winding road.

I’m here today to talk about (not embrace, but maybe a little bit) my overly active imagination and idealism. I don’t know whether I cherish or hate it. This is because on one hand, it’s spurred me on to creating something of the eerie or beautiful, on the other hand, it has had my heart forget it’s job so I’m sort of left there, hanging, with a hammer planted into my chest. It’s like expecting someone to pick you up on the road and you wait thirty minutes – well they must have been late, there was traffic- and an hour slips to four hours and you fall asleep on the bench you were waiting on. The end of the story is, that it never comes, this relief of the person coming for you  (relief that my heart muscle will set me free and stop jittering like a puppy). idealism is a nice concept, it even sounds sophisticated, something that rich educated teenagers use in poems, and to me it’s borderline stuff of nightmares and borderline majestic. It makes you feel grandiose because in that little skull of yours, everything is going the way it is- you’re running the show, honey. so the kiss you wanted landed just right on your lips and that second glance definitely meant more. but in the real world you’re not even sure you have lips to receive that kiss and maybe your lover is looking to the left and not at you. but that’s okay because then you suffer and this little bitch here enjoys the feeling of jumping ten feet stories high or simply dark things you find behind corners. but that’s all okay also because at least i’ll follow the trail of sadness/self victimisation/disappointment(mostly) and bunch it all together and this so called thing/ “art” comes out. and my teacher always says my work looks like anger, I say yes and it’s not anger towards the one or the world that didn’t follow my script, but it’s anger towards myself for making a script in the first place. sometimes i wonder what it feels like to pluck out all my teeth or cut my thighs in front of my lover so that i could simply write about it. this all stems from me just wanting all moments in life to be intense and life-changing and soul-grasping and I can’t stand the ordinary. I don’t want contentment, I want bliss. I don’t want neutral, I want pain or sorrow. I want it all to the extreme and I’ll never be able to stand in the middle of a capsizing boat.

ps. words you say will probably be tattooed on my eyelids

(i like feeling a lot so i don’t know where im going. and change seems scary and weird and uncomfortable and BORING)

suppleness

watch these

teardrops crawl down

your soft

supple skin-

not so supple

actually,

if your fingers can graze

those thorns

made up of piled up

regrets and retorts

sinking into your cushion

when you sleep

when will you realise

you turn on the engine

press accelerate,

cloud your eyes with

gasoline and exhausted smoke,

then you’ll let out a sigh

saying it hurts

stop stepping onto

your window shield to block your

vision, thinking only others

deserve something clear

stop thinking eyes don’t need to

glance this way

because there are miracles

and you’re not

one of them

stop bowing down,

letting hair get into the

way of reality,

stop falling into arms

of those charms, sugar-coated

in self-victimisation

remember what you have

in your backpack,

(but don’t tie strings to it)

you may drop things here and

there,

never finding them again or

tripping on them

and some days you may find that

your fingers extend a little longer

or

shorter

or you might just discover

you’ve grown another tooth-

just stop those hands from ripping it all

off

instead

stand still

freeze

agree

with it all

and

adore

soar in the

vastness

of possibilities

Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats

 

Coats and coats

of laughter

kisses

press record!

remember

 

pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough

 

they’re made out of

porcelain

posting pictures

that define their

life

because they are

nothing more

 

emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens

 

But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect

dollhouse

 

Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.

 

Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.

 

It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t

sleep

 

Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.

 

Better not.

Broken Promises

She looked at him, amazed, with pure joy. It was as if she’d seen him for the first time. For her, he was like a luminescent spark appeared after rubbing two rocks together for countless minutes. Her eyes admired every single bit of the man she knew so well.

She was leaning towards him in her bed, her frail body almost trembling with emotion. Continue reading