“I will take good care of you” 

She had not heard that before. She’s been too busy taking care of herself, of other people. She didn’t realise that that was all she needed – someone else to hold the reigns for a couple of minutes. 

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the stories i write

“So tell me! What do you read? What do you write?”

Romance? The word felt a little off on my tongue. Romance, really? Is that what I’ve been writing? The stories between you and I, the alternatives of what we could have been… I think the proper word is longing. But romance came out anyway.

“Im guessing you have loved a lot!”

“Maybe it’s not about how many people I have loved… but how I’ve loved one person enough.”

Because in all of my stories, all of them, there is a little bit of you. Maybe you are that one story I can never close a book on. Maybe you are that one story I will never be able to truly tell.

This Isn’t Me

“No…”

Dr. Hopen raised his eyebrow. He didn’t expect Layne to react that way.

“No!” Her voice exasperated, “No, I don’t have this. I don’t want it!”

“The first step is acceptance, Layne.”

She was shaking in her chair, covering her eyes with her left hand. She breathed in and held her breath before her words could escape again.

“Have you ever considered,” she breathed, “That this is not the person I ever wanted to be?”

She wasn’t supposed to be like this. She had to be stronger. Someone confident, someone who’s sure, someone other people could look to. The circumstances she was in – there were only so little possibilities. But she wanted to be like her superheroes, she wanted to be like her favourite people, she wanted to prove to everyone that she was abled. That she could live the life she wanted in spite of every other obstacle. Obstacles that needed only one solution – because that’s how life should be right? Problems, solutions, done. She could handle problems that had straightforward solutions.

But now… tiny spaces start to haunt her, crowded places seem to choke her, she can’t carry out her day because the trains or the busses lack any escape. She can’t decide if life is compressing her down to every breath – because every breath is now calculated, counted for five seconds – or if life is blurring out. Because every time it happens, she sees everything all at once: tree, building, person, sign, words, shadows. And when it doesn’t happen, all she can think of is when the next one will be. If she would be ready for it. She knows she needs all her things be ready for it. Rubber band, plastic bag, smelling salts – embarrassing things she wished she didn’t have to bring every single day. She’s embarrassed of what she has to do, how she has to plan out every ‘escape route’ to every environment. Where the nearest toilet is, which exit would be most accessible. Problems, problems, problems. Dr. Hopen had told her that the solutions take practice. They won’t work all the time. The problems, they don’t completely go away. And for Layne, that was just something she couldnt fathom living with.

“I just… I’ve always had a good picture of the person I wanted to be.”


This wasnt it.

What we tell ourselves

“Layne.”

She hears it. She hears her name being called, spoken softly between her ears. She hears it as she falls asleep, as she sits in silence, as she’s alone. It’s almost comforting. Almost. There is some warmth in self preservation.

It echoes through her veins, the voice of everyone before and everyone after. All focused on a present singularity. And Layne would faintly look down, registering what she’s heard. So much can be heard in a syllable; you are fine, I am proud of you, you are loved enough. 

It almost works.


IMG_2193.JPG Sometimes, it feels like our very own headspace is far too compromised. Maybe that’s when we need to learn how to comfort ourselves?

If We…

I was standing in the rain. The kind of rain that kept pouring and pouring. There was no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. And I could feel it, I could feel everything: the rain drops crashing, the weight of my clothes dripping, the thin layer of rainwater underneath my feet…

And you came out of the building. Red umbrella in hand, slowly turning towards the street and meeting my eye. I could see it – you were taken aback, unsure if you should step forward or walk away. You always walked away. This time I stopped you.

“Do you think we would be better at this if we lived a day in each other’s life?” I shouted over the rain, “You’d live as me, I as you; we could find out what lives in our hearts.” I was going crazy, I knew I was going crazy. Seeing you there was enough to go through every memory, every good memory. “Just for a day, please?” My face was wet and I wasn’t sure if it was just the raindrops. “If we..?”

Your grip on the umbrella tightened. You closed your eyes to think – you always do. But you closed them because you got tired. You got tired of me. And we were standing in the rain, except not really – you and your umbrella, me in the rain. And you walked away again. I couldn’t stop you. “Go home.”


I watched a video of one of my favourite singers today. She sang live and cried towards the end of the song, trying her best to keep singing. It made me wonder how anyone could do that – being strong and vulnerable at once.

Is this closure..?

“What happened to that prose you were writing?” she asked, swirling her coffee with a spoon, legs crossed, eyes prying into my own.

It didn’t register for a moment. It was like I’ve forgotten it ever existed: strings of sentences that knew every feeling Ive had. Strange isnt it? After all the time spent.

“You mean,” I paused, knowing the answer but asking anyway, “the one about her?”

She nodded, her face frowning as if I’ve written anything else in prose. It just seemed so far away from me now – our story.

“I don’t need to write about that anymore,” I said, tilting the tea and feeling the warmth against my lips.

“But the story wouldn’t end…” she trailed, engaging in a thought, “There’d be no closure.”

I sighed, reuniting the cup with its saucer. She didnt understand it. She didnt understand how I could just throw away so much time. I supposed it made no sense to her – knowing how much I have bled into the keyboards, only to leave it all in the archives.

“It’s like this,” I start. “I know I still stop whenever I catch a whiff of Issey Miyake’s Rose, or come across red poppies.” I blinked, an image of you already starting to form in my head. “But that’s it. That’s all they are, just signals for memory.”

You know, there was a time where I couldnt do such a thing. I couldnt reduce you. I couldnt let our ending leave without an end. Cause maybe we’re not ever going to end. After three years, I still find myself staring at my phone whenever you leave a stray comment or liked one of my pictures. I’d sit across you every school reunion and our feet would touch with winces of the resulting present. You see, people don’t end.

“And I think it’s okay that it happens. I mean, I know it’ll never end. And after awhile, it becomes okay.”


IIMG_7905.jpeg‘m convincing myself of this sense of closure. I read about this concept in one of my teacher’s prose piece and felt strongly to respond to it. Maybe this is why I’m having a lot of difficulty in one of my long pieces that was based off someone important to me. After awhile it just sums up to knowing that I have once loved someone so much. And that is it, that’s okay.

This is Four Us.

Vodka Cruiser, Peach – Your favourite.
And darling, I’ve had four.

One to hardly think of; just movements of liquid
Through open lips – Lips that used to touch your skin,
Down burning throats that have forgotten how to breathe.
It’s an empty wish for the day I’ll live.

Then Two is for the times I remember:
We were dancing into the kitchen, stumbling half drunk,
Laughing between kisses that were too little and too much.
I guess there are some treasures in vodka and gin mixers.

But three is where visions and words are blurred.
A drop goes down the bottle’s neck, slowing as it curves,
Like fingers across collar bones and three whispered words:
I love you, I loved you…

And Four is where it all goes home.
They say unlucky numbers threaten our souls.
They don’t know I’ve lost mine some time ago.
But love remains for the heart that hardly knows.

And darling, I’ll have four more for the road.


vicesphotosub.jpgSubmission for a theme on vices.
I wanted to write something about alcoholism for some reason. I think it’s something we don’t really take note of until it gets too much, until we depend on it or until its our only source for escape. To celebrate, to remember, to forget.. What do you drink for?

Finished poetry

I don’t know you.
Not yet anyway, not a whole lot.
We could just be strangers who happen  to talk.
But come morning you are my first thought
And every hour after feels like the world’s spun faster
And evenings feel like the best part of the day to me.

I know now what the fox was on to the Little Prince,
Maybe there are certain ‘proper rites’ to things.
And now ‘what ifs’ have become my new favourite flings.
Cause at least there I could be your one and only
Maybe there we could taste each other’s lips.
Even if it’s all just make-believe and

You don’t know me.
Not yet anyway, not a whole lot.
We could be falling in love while we talk.
But come morning you might make no reply
And every hour after feels like the world’s hardly gone by
And evenings will remind me of what we used to be.


This was previously left unfinished but i managed to finish it today!