ISSUE 7
Edited by Pang Sze Ann, Andrew Susilo, Kenrick Lam, Natalie goh, Riti Bisht, Vandana, Yi Tian
PROSEWhat I didn't Say
by Wong Zi Ling Letter (Draft 4)
by Tai Ran multimediaa sister's recount
by Ming Shiuan |
POETRYOpen Call: Chronological Order
by Cheriise The things we can't say
by Zi Han Shattered
by Byron Lim laundromat
by Natalie Goh Bedtime Stories
by Liya |
PROSE
what I didn't say
|
Pride is a funny little thing.
It turns the mind against the heart, corrupting honest lovers like you and I. It flutters beside my ear, a metallic green songbird that chirps incessantly. It wires my mouth shut when all I want to do is scream at you. It forces my head to turn the other way when all I want is to meet you head on. It teaches me to perfect the art of nonchalance, the unimpressed shrug, slight raise of eyebrows; the careful, calculated smoothing of my face into a blank canvas.
As if my heart doesn’t tug at every sigh that escapes your lips.
As if my eyes haven’t traced every part of your face and committed to memory, the way your mouth moves when you say the word ‘love’.
As if hearing you say it doesn’t tug at my entire being, pulling my heart towards you against my will as if we’re in some sick game of tug-of-war
I am tired of pretending that I am on the same page as you, because I am not a single book flipped to a clean new page every day but instead 10 other books all leaned haphazardly against one another with half turned pages and dog- eared texts. I am tired of pretending that I am mature enough to accept the concessions you have made, because sometimes maturity is not always the answer, sometimes the foolish heart deserves a chance to stand at the podium too. I am tired of having to convince myself, over and over again, that I can grow to understand this new reality, because I cannot.
Because what I would like to say is that I am trying. But sometimes trying is not enough to stitch the widening gap between us together again. Sometimes merely “trying” pales in comparison to the “sacrifices” we’ve made and sometimes trying doesn’t make either of us happy.
What I would like to say is that every notification that appears on my phone still has me secretly hoping that it would be you. But sometimes secret hopes just stay secret.
What I would like to say is that I am not good at writing poetry like you are, carefully choosing words to form an iambic pentameter to prove my love for you. Because sometimes love can’t be organised into an ABAB rhyme scheme or 14 lines. Love leaves and love returns when it wants to and no number of words can capture its elusivity.
So be patient with me as I am with you. I’m still learning after all, to package something as unpredictable as love into neat little couplets and 3 line verses like you do.
It turns the mind against the heart, corrupting honest lovers like you and I. It flutters beside my ear, a metallic green songbird that chirps incessantly. It wires my mouth shut when all I want to do is scream at you. It forces my head to turn the other way when all I want is to meet you head on. It teaches me to perfect the art of nonchalance, the unimpressed shrug, slight raise of eyebrows; the careful, calculated smoothing of my face into a blank canvas.
As if my heart doesn’t tug at every sigh that escapes your lips.
As if my eyes haven’t traced every part of your face and committed to memory, the way your mouth moves when you say the word ‘love’.
As if hearing you say it doesn’t tug at my entire being, pulling my heart towards you against my will as if we’re in some sick game of tug-of-war
I am tired of pretending that I am on the same page as you, because I am not a single book flipped to a clean new page every day but instead 10 other books all leaned haphazardly against one another with half turned pages and dog- eared texts. I am tired of pretending that I am mature enough to accept the concessions you have made, because sometimes maturity is not always the answer, sometimes the foolish heart deserves a chance to stand at the podium too. I am tired of having to convince myself, over and over again, that I can grow to understand this new reality, because I cannot.
Because what I would like to say is that I am trying. But sometimes trying is not enough to stitch the widening gap between us together again. Sometimes merely “trying” pales in comparison to the “sacrifices” we’ve made and sometimes trying doesn’t make either of us happy.
What I would like to say is that every notification that appears on my phone still has me secretly hoping that it would be you. But sometimes secret hopes just stay secret.
What I would like to say is that I am not good at writing poetry like you are, carefully choosing words to form an iambic pentameter to prove my love for you. Because sometimes love can’t be organised into an ABAB rhyme scheme or 14 lines. Love leaves and love returns when it wants to and no number of words can capture its elusivity.
So be patient with me as I am with you. I’m still learning after all, to package something as unpredictable as love into neat little couplets and 3 line verses like you do.
letter (draft 4)
|
letter__draft_4__.docx |
Poetry
chronological order
|
fresh out of the womb
a loud shrieking cry fills the room
announcing a newfound existence and presence
screaming desperately for recognition and acknowledgement
enveloped in warmth accompanied by soft cooing,
the screams stop resonating.
fresh out of incarceration
smoke rises up from a bud
it is silent and nonchalant
but with every puff
a newfound desperation rushes in
evanescent,
but still there all the same.
fresh out of the operating room
the monotonous and steady beep of the heart monitor echoes loud in the room
the quiet panting
desperately grasping at the very fabric of its own existence
wanting, needing
to live, to survive
the final gasp
indicating the end of it all.
a loud shrieking cry fills the room
announcing a newfound existence and presence
screaming desperately for recognition and acknowledgement
enveloped in warmth accompanied by soft cooing,
the screams stop resonating.
fresh out of incarceration
smoke rises up from a bud
it is silent and nonchalant
but with every puff
a newfound desperation rushes in
evanescent,
but still there all the same.
fresh out of the operating room
the monotonous and steady beep of the heart monitor echoes loud in the room
the quiet panting
desperately grasping at the very fabric of its own existence
wanting, needing
to live, to survive
the final gasp
indicating the end of it all.
the things we can't say
|
we don’t.
encased in rusted silver,
my confession teeters
on the edge.
rescuing our ruins,
your ex-vow lingers along
the precipice, fading
into a smokescreen
of your lethargic lies,
or my tears
cascading down
tender touches of
your love.
clenching my armoury
of vengeance,
i launch an ambush
on your heaving heart,
praying it backfires.
the things we can’t say,
we won’t.
encased in rusted silver,
my confession teeters
on the edge.
rescuing our ruins,
your ex-vow lingers along
the precipice, fading
into a smokescreen
of your lethargic lies,
or my tears
cascading down
tender touches of
your love.
clenching my armoury
of vengeance,
i launch an ambush
on your heaving heart,
praying it backfires.
the things we can’t say,
we won’t.
shattered
|
I stand here before you.
You stand there across me.
I reach out. You do too.
We stand, parted by glass.
How are you? Silence.
Sleep well? Stillness.
I hate you. You’re mute.
I love you. I’m deaf.
I hug you tight. You do too.
We smother each other with love.
Till death do us part (We do)
Doves and crows fill the air.
You hear me cry. I don’t.
Your heart is mine. Mine, yours.
But it is heavy. The words are heavy.
A wrecking ball thuds at the heart, shatters the glass.
I’m hurt. But you don’t care. You leave me.
Blood flows from the heart, as words do my lips:
You, shattered, love me more than I,
I love you, but I love you more shattered.
You stand there across me.
I reach out. You do too.
We stand, parted by glass.
How are you? Silence.
Sleep well? Stillness.
I hate you. You’re mute.
I love you. I’m deaf.
I hug you tight. You do too.
We smother each other with love.
Till death do us part (We do)
Doves and crows fill the air.
You hear me cry. I don’t.
Your heart is mine. Mine, yours.
But it is heavy. The words are heavy.
A wrecking ball thuds at the heart, shatters the glass.
I’m hurt. But you don’t care. You leave me.
Blood flows from the heart, as words do my lips:
You, shattered, love me more than I,
I love you, but I love you more shattered.
laundromat
|
a faint memory of palmswhich grasp sheets
i told you i hated
doing laundry but recently,
i spend too much time at
the laundromat.
faint hum, blue tiles
rows upon rows of
mechanical love that
never ceases whirling
my laundry spins
a world tilted off-center
starch does not straighten out
the creases in my bedsheets
they fold and unfold themselves
but the crinkles and creases
leave behind traces of
the night before
the residue of your presence
lingers
its bittersweet aftertaste
remaining until i grow
accustomed (attached)
we grow apart and i forget
the very sound of your voice.
but your lips do not listen to you;
they are unable to form
the very words
you long to say (i need)
so i will forget your lips
and your palms
and your words
finally
i leave the laundromat,
empty handed.
i told you i hated
doing laundry but recently,
i spend too much time at
the laundromat.
faint hum, blue tiles
rows upon rows of
mechanical love that
never ceases whirling
my laundry spins
a world tilted off-center
starch does not straighten out
the creases in my bedsheets
they fold and unfold themselves
but the crinkles and creases
leave behind traces of
the night before
the residue of your presence
lingers
its bittersweet aftertaste
remaining until i grow
accustomed (attached)
we grow apart and i forget
the very sound of your voice.
but your lips do not listen to you;
they are unable to form
the very words
you long to say (i need)
so i will forget your lips
and your palms
and your words
finally
i leave the laundromat,
empty handed.
bedtime stories
|
on social media they say that eating ready-made macaroni
and cheese could potentially cut short your
lifespan. in school they tell us too much sugar
will kill you. by dim lamplight we hear stories of summer,
ballooning ribcages, secret expulsions. it is never
enough. we never let the words that sound more like rain
and less like sandpaper slip out of our mouths.
we sleep-talk. we suffer. we squirrel away
bits and pieces of pride and hide them away inside
our heart-hollow cheeks, and, smiling, flaunt our
death-row numbers like gold medals. there
is something wrong with the way the math doesn’t add
up here, something broken. some days you look less like reality
and more like a pipe cleaner on a glossy silver screen
and i want to tell you to follow your heart but i
am not really sure where it is anymore. the truth is,
we are all still learning to walk at seventeen. this is
a tutorial on how to stay alive. you are the only one
who can remember how to find yourself, and darling,
there are so many things i want to say to you but my hands
can only reach as far as the dusty candy-wrappers
on your table so i cannot tell you to put the calculator
away. my flashlight is only strong enough to illuminate
the haunted hollow in your heart so i cannot straighten
the crooked pipe cleaner corners of your smile.
but i will sit on the corner of your bed anyway, wearing heartache
on my pajama sleeve and dead stars in my eyes,
and i will tell you the kindest bedtime story in the world.
and cheese could potentially cut short your
lifespan. in school they tell us too much sugar
will kill you. by dim lamplight we hear stories of summer,
ballooning ribcages, secret expulsions. it is never
enough. we never let the words that sound more like rain
and less like sandpaper slip out of our mouths.
we sleep-talk. we suffer. we squirrel away
bits and pieces of pride and hide them away inside
our heart-hollow cheeks, and, smiling, flaunt our
death-row numbers like gold medals. there
is something wrong with the way the math doesn’t add
up here, something broken. some days you look less like reality
and more like a pipe cleaner on a glossy silver screen
and i want to tell you to follow your heart but i
am not really sure where it is anymore. the truth is,
we are all still learning to walk at seventeen. this is
a tutorial on how to stay alive. you are the only one
who can remember how to find yourself, and darling,
there are so many things i want to say to you but my hands
can only reach as far as the dusty candy-wrappers
on your table so i cannot tell you to put the calculator
away. my flashlight is only strong enough to illuminate
the haunted hollow in your heart so i cannot straighten
the crooked pipe cleaner corners of your smile.
but i will sit on the corner of your bed anyway, wearing heartache
on my pajama sleeve and dead stars in my eyes,
and i will tell you the kindest bedtime story in the world.
drowning bodies, burning minds
|
you fill the ocean
you drown in.
your mouth is a gift but
you sew your lips together
our fingers delicate, spiderwebs unbroken
your words unspoken unheard unreal
your lips the scream of red
your face the tears of vermillion. If
your thoughts never become sounds, they don't exist.
you cry without tears, so it's just
your way of laughing, hysterically.
your mind
i fell in love with it but inside
they scream and they tear and all
we can do is weave threads of a new world not
our own fabric of the galaxy, but hints, just
our own flashes of soft pink caresses
your hand on mine and
our legs entwined
your soul, unwind.
our memories what flimsy things they are
our minds hiding things we cannot feel and
their love we can never touch and
we --
we unravel at the beat of
our hearts; say
you'll stay but i won't know either way and what
we don't say becomes the space between
us but so what because eternity multiplied is nothing more.
we all fill the oceans
we drown in.
you drown in.
your mouth is a gift but
you sew your lips together
our fingers delicate, spiderwebs unbroken
your words unspoken unheard unreal
your lips the scream of red
your face the tears of vermillion. If
your thoughts never become sounds, they don't exist.
you cry without tears, so it's just
your way of laughing, hysterically.
your mind
i fell in love with it but inside
they scream and they tear and all
we can do is weave threads of a new world not
our own fabric of the galaxy, but hints, just
our own flashes of soft pink caresses
your hand on mine and
our legs entwined
your soul, unwind.
our memories what flimsy things they are
our minds hiding things we cannot feel and
their love we can never touch and
we --
we unravel at the beat of
our hearts; say
you'll stay but i won't know either way and what
we don't say becomes the space between
us but so what because eternity multiplied is nothing more.
we all fill the oceans
we drown in.
things i cannot say
|
things like:
you make me dance because i have wings (yes i do) not just tiny delicate gossamer wings drawn from air and fire and life crafted with grains of you and how you laugh but towering ebony wings like glossy kisses of plumage
brilliant feathers of anything and everything and nothing
of you and me and none
and you make me fly and if i fly enough i may keep up with the sun and then maybe we soar with the cloudless sky we are
unbridled unbound uninhibited as if the dark will never catch up it will never catch me but guess what you aren't flying and it's just me and me and me and i can do this and i will do this but i can't do this and i won't do this and it's not you that keeps me high it's
me
and i don't need you but then you split and you make
me
sick. because of you,
some days it seems like getting out of bed is a task, and brushing my teeth is another. you bring me into dark valleys, holes in the ground and my memory that shouldn't exist.
sadness
is just a state of mind, you say, and
emptiness
is just a state of being.
parallel lines
are only art, unless on a breathing canvas.
in the lack of space
between you and me
(i call it a chasm)
are the things i cannot say.
things, like
you make me sick.
you make me dance because i have wings (yes i do) not just tiny delicate gossamer wings drawn from air and fire and life crafted with grains of you and how you laugh but towering ebony wings like glossy kisses of plumage
brilliant feathers of anything and everything and nothing
of you and me and none
and you make me fly and if i fly enough i may keep up with the sun and then maybe we soar with the cloudless sky we are
unbridled unbound uninhibited as if the dark will never catch up it will never catch me but guess what you aren't flying and it's just me and me and me and i can do this and i will do this but i can't do this and i won't do this and it's not you that keeps me high it's
me
and i don't need you but then you split and you make
me
sick. because of you,
some days it seems like getting out of bed is a task, and brushing my teeth is another. you bring me into dark valleys, holes in the ground and my memory that shouldn't exist.
sadness
is just a state of mind, you say, and
emptiness
is just a state of being.
parallel lines
are only art, unless on a breathing canvas.
in the lack of space
between you and me
(i call it a chasm)
are the things i cannot say.
things, like
you make me sick.
thoughts of you
|
things like:
you make me dance because i have wings (yes i do) not just tiny delicate gossamer wings drawn from air and fire and life crafted with grains of you and how you laugh but towering ebony wings like glossy kisses of plumage
brilliant feathers of anything and everything and nothing
of you and me and none
and you make me fly and if i fly enough i may keep up with the sun and then maybe we soar with the cloudless sky we are
unbridled unbound uninhibited as if the dark will never catch up it will never catch me but guess what you aren't flying and it's just me and me and me and i can do this and i will do this but i can't do this and i won't do this and it's not you that keeps me high it's
me
and i don't need you but then you split and you make
me
sick. because of you,
some days it seems like getting out of bed is a task, and brushing my teeth is another. you bring me into dark valleys, holes in the ground and my memory that shouldn't exist.
sadness
is just a state of mind, you say, and
emptiness
is just a state of being.
parallel lines
are only art, unless on a breathing canvas.
in the lack of space
between you and me
(i call it a chasm)
are the things i cannot say.
things, like
you make me sick.
you make me dance because i have wings (yes i do) not just tiny delicate gossamer wings drawn from air and fire and life crafted with grains of you and how you laugh but towering ebony wings like glossy kisses of plumage
brilliant feathers of anything and everything and nothing
of you and me and none
and you make me fly and if i fly enough i may keep up with the sun and then maybe we soar with the cloudless sky we are
unbridled unbound uninhibited as if the dark will never catch up it will never catch me but guess what you aren't flying and it's just me and me and me and i can do this and i will do this but i can't do this and i won't do this and it's not you that keeps me high it's
me
and i don't need you but then you split and you make
me
sick. because of you,
some days it seems like getting out of bed is a task, and brushing my teeth is another. you bring me into dark valleys, holes in the ground and my memory that shouldn't exist.
sadness
is just a state of mind, you say, and
emptiness
is just a state of being.
parallel lines
are only art, unless on a breathing canvas.
in the lack of space
between you and me
(i call it a chasm)
are the things i cannot say.
things, like
you make me sick.
multimedia |