Belonging. 

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

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Shave

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

Weight. 

Soft sighs. 

Fingers on ink pads. 

Silence. 

Drunk body. 

Eye bags after sleepless nights. 

Stubborn fats. 

Cremation. 

A heavy heart. 

Sand bags. 

Imaginary gold bars. 

A single black mark. 

Fruit of labour. 

Dust. 

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. 

Unlabelled. 

X marking an unfounded treasure. 

Bomb. 

You. 

Numerals. 

Numbers that never go beyond 

A certain amount 

Unpredictable fluctuations 

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. 

That’s fact. 

Speakers’ Corner. 

Speakers’ Corner 

A board kept empty 

To always appear spacious 

For alternate views 

And space to breathe

But really, 

It serves as a warning for

Thoughts that beg to differ 

A statement of all thoughts that came

Before 

Vanished, perished and condemned 

Behind bars we can never see 

Stifled and silent suffocation 

To never speak