Could You Love This?

It falls alone like wilting flowers.

La vie en rose

Like a lipstick stain, left on a carseat
An egg-shaped rock chosen by gay penguins
A butterfly wing on a windowsill.
Just shy, just short of a prior.

Je suis amoureux, mais je suis mort

What is context but a broken backdrop,
What are details but lines,
What is a story but colours spilled beyond?

Someone sings in a kitchen, alone

‘Et ça me fait quelque chose.’

Toes rounding the corners of old ceramic tiles
Ragged, cracked, abandoned,
But the singing continues, carrying on, carrying forth.

Que sera, sera.

 

#MeToo – On Sexual Assault

Performed at Spoke and Bird Open Mic, at the Artistry. Performance found here

Sec 2, pre-puberty. I was dressed in a cloak and cosplay, running around my school, asking kids if they would like to join the drama club. Alumnis, probably, older boys, definitely, surrounded my childish frame and asked if they could join the drama club with smug faces.

One boy put his arm around me, I am haunted by what his shirt had smelled of- Too much deodorant, too much danger. My first boyfriend would only be angry because they had touched his “girlfriend”, as if I belonged to him.

Continue reading “#MeToo – On Sexual Assault”

A Pocket Full of Kueh

Pictured above: My Father, who kept loving me when I forgot to love him.

Performed at the Foodrama Poetry Slam 2017, Organised by Word Forward, at Blu Jaz Cafè.

My dad never understood why I hated eating kueh. I spent 7 years forcing kuehs down my throat, long since learning that resistance was futile.

I used to run to my dad for a hug the moment he got home. My dad called me a little “Tau sah piah”, because those were my favourite words for a while.

I wonder what happened to those years. I haven’t eaten kueh in a long time.

Continue reading “A Pocket Full of Kueh”

Dead To Me

Pictured: My Ball-Jointed doll, Mindy. 

Submitted on Day 26 of #SingPoWriMo2017

She shimmered under the moonlight, your fingertips brushed over her rivers and valleys, the dip and rise of her mountains, forests and hills. And you breathed hot air on her neck, straining yourself to fit your hands around all of her, trying to hold everything you wanted closer.

I like to think that she had died in your arms. It’s comforting, in a way, to know that she had disappeared together with my memory of you. I’d like to think of her self-destruction as the moment you took her into your arms.

Continue reading “Dead To Me”

To The Mourners

to-the-mourners

Written 11/11/2016

You will sleep tonight.
The trees and the birds and the seas will let you rest tonight.
You, with your hands wrapped around theirs, around a bottleneck, will sleep tonight.
You will rest soundly, without worries, without fear, without shaking.

And you will wake. With your hands burning. And you will fight. With the strength you still have left in you. It is not over yet. You will fight tomorrow. You will live tomorrow. You will thrive again, and again, and again, and you will live out of spite tomorrow.

But tonight, you will sleep.
You will rest tonight.
You will sleep tonight.
You will sleep tonight.