ruth

  weather a little chilly. I wish I had brought hot tea and my diary with me so I could journal. I found this secluded little gem of a park on the other side of town. I wanted a place to sit, read and journal in privacy.   

  I've been quiet in my pondering the past few days. in this solitude I like to believe Jesus is with me, in this silence, just in company. that even if I'm not speaking to him, he’s just here with me. 

  what if life is just about finding a decent husband who would provide? to get married and have my own kids (perceived not as ours)? no, in this aspect maybe I have not changed much, I still yearn for more than motions, for someone to know my heart, for a fulfilment I know I've only found in Jesus (for him to be matchmaker, a rs built on and honouring to him, someone whose closest friend is him).

  let this be my quiet prayer. let me be able to recognise his answers.   

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

I miss you in the ways I can't speak of.

There comes a time when a girl has to leave the mother's nest- go out into the world, live her life, learn independence; but this little birdie is afraid. Her mother hasn't been home in days, had not prepped her to fly away. All she does is sit there and wait. She's not ready yet. 

In the silence of stillness, she whispers a prayer. Always, she is looking for a place to call home.