wherever it ends

The dimness of winter will soften the memories, I tell myself.

That space held between us in getting to know each other. Easiness of breath as we pushed through crowds walking in the cold air. You remain unmoved by my shakiness and dissonance. Playful fun and shared giggles. An exhale of relief knowing I do not carry this alone, but you share the weight. Conversations across dinner tables in intentional pursuit and knowing. Brushing arms in an unfamiliar bar. For a moment I thought I could actually let everything that had made me fall away, and you could still hold what’s in front of you that's made of those pieces. 

Wherever it ends, I will remember the moments it almost seemed I could begin again.

almost (5/10/2025)

There is a sense of relief in meeting people it once seemed you didn't have the access to, just as the sense of intangible sadness seeing the people you once had access to be lost to our own choices. Maybe there's an alternate reality out there where I had been unharmed by you, and instead I had made a life with the people that could have been. But today, all I have are these unreachable realities, thoughts and feelings I can't exactly explain to another. All I am is letting go of the possibilities, still trying to craft a life I can live in, safeguarding a past I can no longer change.  

Maybe this is the closest I will ever get to it.

empty womb, open wounds

as I lay there on the cold bathroom tiles, sweaty and breathless, the realisation finally came to me- there is so much violence against this body.    

I think I had numb myself towards it when the abuse began, until I couldn't feel anything at all, until I couldn't conceive what was wrong.    

I wonder why I let all these bad things happen. I wonder why I started tearing myself down after. I wonder why I stopped taking care of myself. I wonder why I believed I deserved so little. I wonder why I hurt myself this way. I wonder when I will finally stop.    

I bled my insides raw. a loss bigger than myself- the fragility of life, the delicacy of living, the grace of breathing. every purge trying to remove the chemicals I've ingested from my blood. my body made to sustain life held on until it no longer could. finally reaching an end, none of its life left in me. nothing left in me. no life left in me.   

the next morning I collect myself from the bathroom floor. left behind a crime scene with no corpse. just pain, blood, and violence spewed all over. I collect the grief. I carry on. or more so I wonder how might I ever be able to.    

within my heart I bury the burdens. sunk my teeth into the tenderness of anger and it tasted bitter. spring blooms wither in a destroyed garden. I clench to my belly but my arms were full of empty. I gave birth to death and cradle the loss until it goes to sleep. 

what is love?

I come back to God and I cry.

genesis 19:26

I miss a time when my sadness was still tangible. When I understood it more. When it was still childlike and innocent, like a Father taking away a toy from a child. When it was still hopeful. 

Now I have to accept that I have ownership over my life. That when the Father asks me to do something, I made that choice to listen or not. That it is my own doings that led me here. My mistakes. 

And with all that, life comes loss. This sadness is no longer hopeful, but more so desperate and dire. There is nothing sadder than grief. Nothing more despair than loss. Things that are lost can never be found. 

I am made of nothing but grief.

oxymoron

 i kind of miss the time of pandemic in 2020

when the halt in life seemed like a breath of relief

when there were parts of myself i have yet to lose

when the loss in my life felt so amplified all i could sense

was the absence i was surrounded with

from the size of my palms to the space

i occupied in the lives of those around me,

everything i am is small.

everything i've ever held in my hands

has always managed to slip out of it.

maybe that's why things larger than my fists

easily overwhelm me and i could never

amount to anything greater than myself.

i'm afraid i will never be able to hold it

 and like how it always has been

every time i had the chance i will lose it

eventually.

how many ways could the past be rewritten?

i wish i could recollect your thoughts from the missing pages

piece them together in a way that's coherent

and expressive of how you truly felt

your emotions and deep sense of sorrow

i would go over the same lines over and over again

marked alphabets on blank pages

hoping they may carry 

a different meaning this time