I am not the unevenness of my skin.
The little volcanoes of angry red and the blemishes on fair rough surface. The folds of fats and flesh and lines of cellulite that decorate my inner thighs. Stretch marks that commemorate the growing into womanhood at the hips. Straight flat hair of mixed colours and not one. Flat Asian nose with a dying bridge. Shaved legs with ingrown body hair. Bare with no coverage. Full eyebrows – all grown out and not shapen.
I am not the emotions that haunt me.
The silent frustration that explodes in my mind. Nerves drawing blood on dried lips. Biting my tongue and letting the unfair words bleed back into my lungs. Smile made too wide and too naive. Tears of irrationality flooding and tracing the contours of my face. Unhidden frowns. Premature wrinkles of false smiles and from blinking back truth. Eyes wide open but taking nothing in. Spacing out like a space cadet. Lost.
I am not the failures I have made.
The below ten scores for mathematics back in secondary school. Never being able to run 2.4km beyond a bronze award. The way I speak mandarin like a dictionary would – with a lack of emotion and a focus on pronunciation. Not being feminine and submissive enough. What is enough? Never made for an ugly duckling fairytale. Best at being average and below the line. Perpetually peering at fifty and not a hundred. Always on the outside of a spot and never shining.
I am not the gender given to me.
The compulsory skirts of knee length. The pink that taints all choices when entering girlhood. Conditioned to know my place in a family of tradition and pride. When pretty gets marriage and smarts get unhappiness. Assumptions on what love should be. That the body is not a temple but a transaction for money. Burden. Born of impure blood and a vanishing youth. Hidden ambitions and unsaid rules. Big thighs are never equivalent to big hearts. Big is a word that should not exist. Small is always good.
I am not all those things people say.
That artists are mean definitions of vagabonds in their homeland. Pursuit of pure idealism and not pragmatism. Head in the clouds and feet up in the air. Misplaced; should be replaced. Ugly, fat and not good enough. Human waste. Wasteland of non-existent goals. Just a phase. Crazed youth with self-inflicted scars on that heart on the sleeve. Unreliable words laced with cheap liquor and overwhelming perfume.
I am beyond plain sight, and I am faster than the hands trying to tie me down. I am what I am, and nothing will make me drown.