The boy is granite hewn,
Not marble like David,
Nor is he cloudy-clear quartz.
Or perhaps he is lodestone, and she is reluctant, rusted steel.
He feels like mountain roots and the scent of dawn
But his eyes tell nothing
And she is a tornado and she breaks beehives
Feet trailing honey
He could be granite and he could be milk
But she would stagger away from the precipice if she could.
You make me think of bird bones, half hidden under the mouldering shell of my skin. I used to crumble at your touch.
Now I will give you vivid dreams of salt nights, fire-eyed girls running wild and uncaught. You will learn to ache with unlovely longing. I will keep my secrets and you can keep ours.
I can no longer write. My detachment and cynicism cannot be cloaked by pretty words, they have colored my vision, stayed my pen.
Living with life at an arm's length is what I do best now. Knowing or unknowing, I've come to the understanding that only those whom I allow close to me can hurt me - and so I hide. Watch me: I smile so winningly, jest and excel. Oh I can draw! Sketching and rendering my despair so perfectly, those wide eyes, those lips parted in a spasm of horror. My self portraits, they mock me. But words, once my solace, come difficult to me now.
My catalyst? News of your illness fills my mind, how is it that you only tell us
i was at the supermarket to distract myself from eating.
the air smelled plasticky. i dont know why froot loops cost more than plain cornflakes. or honey stars, my favourite. does rainbow colouring cost more? it makes me sad. some kind of thin, spiderweb-tearing sadness that i'd forget in ten minutes.
the cashier looked at me strangely. i was the only one in the store after lunchtime, and it was the business part of town where no one ventured out except during lunch. save for hassled secretaries on a coffee run, and they wouldnt be at the supermarket. she saw me walk in an hour ago and watched me as i passed her counter with empty hands.
m
Mama tells me that my name is a bad name, that it was chosen poorly.
Jin Ling - the first character being that of fine cloth, flowers-heaped-onto-beautiful-brocade, all five-colour silk and shining threads. The second character signified sharp cliffs, humiliation, ice, and the darkness which is female embodied.
Bless my fickle-hearted parents, earth-god. Having written my name on the birth certificate, Baba sought to amend it. He added an extra stroke to the latter to remove the chill nature, making it water and not ice. It was, however, a false, imaginary character.
Perhaps it was deliberate. A third daughter born to him, a long eight yea
The morning rides me, presenting me a gift of palpitations and palm-sweat. I awaken to your shades, your scent of salt and bluepink chalk. Chalk all wiped into my eyelids from a late night at the pool tables, "one more set before we four head home" dragging out the hours. Chalk wiped along my damp fingers to better slide the cue.
That night I slid my toes into the warmth of your blankets, I knew it to be a repeated mistake, one that I had yet to learnt from. Your fingers find themselves tracing treasure trails along the outer curves of my thigh and mine crept to your arms: but no more no more, even in our half asleep/awake states, don't ale
Ours was a journey of almost-there's and not-quite-content,
singing of spring breezes and sunrises and lacrymosa.
You taught me the value of unblinking discipline,
to mask despair behind words of encouragement -
lies to fool oneself and all who listen, those who must listen.
And you taught your lessons too well:
strong words to cage your love, to break our hearts,
so at least you could walk away and we'd never dare to call your name to a
retreating back,
lest your heart surrender and guide your unwilling footsteps back to us.
Now I do see: peeling between the cavity in your
chest
the beating organ that leads you
leads you
l
The boy is granite hewn,
Not marble like David,
Nor is he cloudy-clear quartz.
Or perhaps he is lodestone, and she is reluctant, rusted steel.
He feels like mountain roots and the scent of dawn
But his eyes tell nothing
And she is a tornado and she breaks beehives
Feet trailing honey
He could be granite and he could be milk
But she would stagger away from the precipice if she could.
You make me think of bird bones, half hidden under the mouldering shell of my skin. I used to crumble at your touch.
Now I will give you vivid dreams of salt nights, fire-eyed girls running wild and uncaught. You will learn to ache with unlovely longing. I will keep my secrets and you can keep ours.
i was at the supermarket to distract myself from eating.
the air smelled plasticky. i dont know why froot loops cost more than plain cornflakes. or honey stars, my favourite. does rainbow colouring cost more? it makes me sad. some kind of thin, spiderweb-tearing sadness that i'd forget in ten minutes.
the cashier looked at me strangely. i was the only one in the store after lunchtime, and it was the business part of town where no one ventured out except during lunch. save for hassled secretaries on a coffee run, and they wouldnt be at the supermarket. she saw me walk in an hour ago and watched me as i passed her counter with empty hands.
m
Mama tells me that my name is a bad name, that it was chosen poorly.
Jin Ling - the first character being that of fine cloth, flowers-heaped-onto-beautiful-brocade, all five-colour silk and shining threads. The second character signified sharp cliffs, humiliation, ice, and the darkness which is female embodied.
Bless my fickle-hearted parents, earth-god. Having written my name on the birth certificate, Baba sought to amend it. He added an extra stroke to the latter to remove the chill nature, making it water and not ice. It was, however, a false, imaginary character.
Perhaps it was deliberate. A third daughter born to him, a long eight yea
The morning rides me, presenting me a gift of palpitations and palm-sweat. I awaken to your shades, your scent of salt and bluepink chalk. Chalk all wiped into my eyelids from a late night at the pool tables, "one more set before we four head home" dragging out the hours. Chalk wiped along my damp fingers to better slide the cue.
That night I slid my toes into the warmth of your blankets, I knew it to be a repeated mistake, one that I had yet to learnt from. Your fingers find themselves tracing treasure trails along the outer curves of my thigh and mine crept to your arms: but no more no more, even in our half asleep/awake states, don't ale
Ours was a journey of almost-there's and not-quite-content,
singing of spring breezes and sunrises and lacrymosa.
You taught me the value of unblinking discipline,
to mask despair behind words of encouragement -
lies to fool oneself and all who listen, those who must listen.
And you taught your lessons too well:
strong words to cage your love, to break our hearts,
so at least you could walk away and we'd never dare to call your name to a
retreating back,
lest your heart surrender and guide your unwilling footsteps back to us.
Now I do see: peeling between the cavity in your
chest
the beating organ that leads you
leads you
l
You used to tell me how perfectly we'd fit together,
like puzzle pieces, and misaligned teeth, protrusions and hollows.
We used to spend glittering nights and days,
marvelling at our youth, indomitable sparks of our carelessness.
Until I took to running away, counting my thirty-seven-thousand-nine-hundred-and-two steps
berating myself for being selfish,
number games to fill my mind and not my stomach,
did I realise that our world was misaligned like raindrops spitting out from bonfires
like fireflies trapped in wolves' bellies
and jellyfish sliced on kitestring nooses.
And you never dared to say it, that we were from the wrong p
You take what you can get. You always find a way to make do. Your mother taught you that. Your mother drank wine through a straw. When you were fifteen, you watched her take down your father's hunting rifle from above the fireplace and shoot your dog, your best friend, that got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. When you were fifteen your mother held you as you cried about your dog, your best friend, that got run over by your neighbour's truck and had to be put down. She didn't say a word as you did but when you were fifteen, you caught her weeping in the middle of the night to your father, who apologized that she had
Mama tells me that my name is a bad name, that it was chosen poorly.
Jin Ling - the first character being that of fine cloth, flowers-heaped-onto-beautiful-brocade, all five-colour silk and shining threads. The second character signified sharp cliffs, humiliation, ice, and the darkness which is female embodied.
Bless my fickle-hearted parents, earth-god. Having written my name on the birth certificate, Baba sought to amend it. He added an extra stroke to the latter to remove the chill nature, making it water and not ice. It was, however, a false, imaginary character.
Perhaps it was deliberate. A third daughter born to him, a long eight yea
Like I'd said in a previous deviation, I can't write.
Though, I can write about what's been going on.
I've decided to put down something incredibly important to me, something that was once a passion but now I see as somewhat.. misguided. Something I'd held close for 14 out of my 21 years of life. Music, playing my clarinet. Or more relevantly, deciding that my mentor is no longer the most important person in my life.
Idolatry brings me nowhere. It's incredibly sad that a passion has become a huge source of negativity in my life.
And though I've been recovering well from my ed, all this turmoil just throws me back. I'm recovering from a ve
College is busybusybusy and stressful in the sense that everyone is pretty competitive. Mine is not an easy course to enter (pharmacy) so I should not complain.
I'm killing trees because new lecture notes are posted everyday (and I detest using my laptop for note taking. Traditionalist at heart. ) I have stretched watercolour paper that I have yet to paint. My red-blue-golds running through my mind my dreams, and I'm suffering from a lack of me time. Creativity time. Need to write too. But my hands are stained magenta from Amaranth solution when I prepare cough syrups and I have finger cots (my friends call them finger condoms) for preparing
I just realised that the new journals have a mood reset button!~mega-la-plz (https://www.deviantart.com/mega-la-plz)
I've been waiting for this day foreverrrrr.
Waiting for my belated vacation to Langkawi :meow:
surf sun sand maybe something worth writinggggggg.
I want to paint! Already stretched some paper but haven't time to paint. I have heaps of old sketches I'd love to paint but my scanner is... Shall we say, horrible at rendering colour.
Cleared 500 odd deviation messages.
So, main point of this post is that: I'm still active! (: