Where do you stand
Loving both men and women in
Equal measure for their similarities
Skeleton skin sins
Differences only in curves gender politics and bias
When you belong to neither straight nor
Days of being closeted and no bravery story
Or do you just sit in an isolated yellow box
Pretending to disappear with every puff
Smoke snaking up into the sky
Like wishes unmade and justifications you should have said
Before going back into bed to dream the same dreams again
Positive vibes only
Is as harmful and isolating
As someone struggling with
Walk past and
View the world only
In the colours you yearn
Ignorance is bliss and that’s life
How much of myself is a culmination
Of invisible barriers and pull me back
How much of myself is me giving
That body for them to do so?
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
Fingers on ink pads.
Eye bags after sleepless nights.
A heavy heart.
Imaginary gold bars.
A single black mark.
Fruit of labour.
Groceries for a family.
Box of old letters.
Bags of sealed stuffed toys.
Diving into the ocean.
Wisps of smoke.
Tattoos on seen skin.
A political opinion.
Standing on stage.
On the periphery.
X marking an unfounded treasure.
Numbers that never go beyond
A certain amount
But predictable depletions
Never rising yet
Always have enough to keep on falling
I am starting to develop a fear of checking my account balance, just like how I instinctively avoid the mirror as well as weighing scale.
Random thought: if a disaster happened, money wouldn’t matter because it will all burn away and no longer becomes a status, but a consequence.
So why am I so hard up about it now?
Dollars and cents shouldn’t define us.
But it shapes my lifestyle.
A board kept empty
To always appear spacious
For alternate views
And space to breathe
It serves as a warning for
Thoughts that beg to differ
A statement of all thoughts that came
Vanished, perished and condemned
Behind bars we can never see
Stifled and silent suffocation
To never speak