I am called porcelain

A colonised white 

My blood blue ink bled 

Into flowers and mythical life
My face a reflection of the Gods 

No modern person believes and 

A Moon that only reflects

Never creates light
My hair too dark too thick too much 

For beauty a femininity too coarse 

A diamond is only a diamond when 

Burnt with fire
So I paint my image with flames 
My petite hands hold blades that reflect

Modernised moons and shave my 

Body seen unseen 

Hide the hairs weed the garden purify this porcelain 
My feet bound by Asian ideals and a 

Third culture loss 

Always too eastern stained with west setting sun 

Stay control clear the forest of dark 
I am called exotic 

Surrender on scarred skin 

My blood red rage marked in

An unreadable constellation of ideals


Empty Hands. 

Plenty of things cannot be controlled in this lifetime. 

The weather, Lady Luck and what people say about you, especially those behind your back. The words that travel in your tiny little circle to every possible space before coming back to your very own ears. Conversation that twists your reputation to an unrecognisable mess, and you wouldn’t even know about it. Or without purpose sometimes, to others, but solely to feed themselves. 

Knowing this, and that there is nothing you can do about it, can be freeing. A given freedom that takes time to grasp willingly. Almost resigned. Otherwise, it gives you a severe sense of helplessness. 

That’s when the unpleasant reactions start: betrayal, unfairly accused, want for revenge and complete surrender. 

But if you are at this stage, breathe. It is so difficult, but try. Sit in the place you are at now and scream into your empty hands. Only when you hold this feeling can you consciously let it go. Don’t stoop to their level. Perhaps this advice is born out of a place of pride, but know that you can do better. It will get better. Maybe this advice is purely delusional. 

But try. Try try try. 

Until the moment passes and you move on. Because in the end, the uncontrollable will always be but our person can move. And hopefully, it moves beyond this. 


Soft sighs. 

Fingers on ink pads. 


Drunk body. 

Eye bags after sleepless nights. 

Stubborn fats. 


A heavy heart. 

Sand bags. 

Imaginary gold bars. 

A single black mark. 

Fruit of labour. 


Groceries for a family. 

Box of old letters. 

Bags of sealed stuffed toys. 

Family albums. 

High heels. 

Diving into the ocean. 

Wisps of smoke. 

Celebratory cakes. 

Tattoos on seen skin. 

A political opinion. 

Piercing glare. 

Standing on stage. 

Mere numbers. 

On the periphery. 


X marking an unfounded treasure. 



C&P: One. 

Living in the mind 

Living in my mind – the only mind I know of 

Real life is not a body but a thought 

The thought lives and breathes through 

Me – the vessel of philosophy and 


Analyse me and you shall receive 

Unless you miss because I am

Always a step ahead 

Perhaps you would like to try again 

A tango is made for two and this 

Game is played by two 

The words take shape in my arms 

My legs walk through streets 

A blurry mess before my reddened eyes

Seeing nothing but only the necessary 

Thoughts seep through my skin and lead

Never doubt the body’s memory 

Here I go – is it still I? Us? 

Can I be in a body that is not mine? All

The words repeat overlap shout and shapeshift into 

New text each night 

Looking at the Little Neva so

Bloody quiet 

My heart is still beating in mute and my

Lips dried in a fixed smile 

Of confusion and self-loathing

Where are you

Wake up curl in a ball laugh at me 

Come back

(Closest to) Silence. 

I remember watching this entire film that was silent. Yet it wasn’t called a silent film, because its exploration is about silence and not about the genre itself. I remember being fascinated, intrigued and a huge sense of calm wash over me. 

Today, I wonder if I can find silence but I know I can’t. The world is too noisy and the city never sleeps. 

Here’s a list of experiences I have that I think are closest to the silence I am searching for. 

Echoes in the mental chamber

Radio play on an Uber

Highway at 3am 

Heart beating in ear drums 

Air-conditioner whizzing 

Speeding motorcycles every blue moon 

Flickering toilet lights 

Wasp hitting the mirror persistently

Applying make up on my face 

Breath of the sleeping body next to you

Rustling leaves during windy weather 

Flowing tap water 

Construction workers digging underground 

MRT doors closing at every station 

Buzzing of traffic lights 

Yawns in a quiet classroom 

Shifting in bed under comfortable comforters 

Purring of a lonely cat under the void deck

Applying body foam to skin during shower

Clicking of high heels 

Lights going off past midnight 

Lights coming up past midnight 

Shy kisses on closed lips – slow and deliberate 

Running fingers through hair


Crickets in the dark 

Echoes of the heart