What we tell ourselves


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!

Roses are Red

Roses are a forbidden kind of red,
one that leaves thorns in a wanderer’s head
sullen and sinned for wanting things to begin.
every glance she gives would redden one’s skin.
see, who could resist these kisses to the wind?

amid, the wanderer’s heart then falls apart,
rooting for a bloom selfish in art, knowing
eventually wanders end when summer departs.

Risen in principle, risen in past,
every petal would leave a lasting mark. So
dance through the seasons, and leave nothing dark.

IMG_6101.JPGThere are people we shouldnt fall for. But we fall anyway. And halfway through we kind of stop running away from it. We kind of just flow.

Dancing in Anxiety

I wanted to test the perimeters again. I have this insubstantial thinking that if I get to go through this once, if I can just hold up till the night ends, then maybe the perimeters of my anxiety would incoherently expand.

Only it didn’t. I guess I should have taken the hint from my hand trembling just as we went inside. The hand I tried my best to hide. Now I’m stuck in wait for the terrible to take place.

But there is something about careless crowds in loud music and bright lights filling glasses of gin.

Im glad I went but I ain’t ever clubbing again – post anxiety is not worth it

Slow down

Slow down… We’re in no rush.
Everyone has somewhere to be, people to meet.

We don’t.
There’s nowhere to get to,
No one to be with.
We’ve stopped moving in the world that still spins.

And I’m not so sure if we’ve won…
Or if we’ve forgotten how to move on.

IMG_6007.JPGThe question is, what do we do then?
When you find yourself lacking behind and everyone else seems so far ahead or when you feel like “this must be how they enjoy life” while everyone else’s stuck in rush mode. Which is it? What do we do?