Poem for the closeted
If you can only watch Pink Dot from behind closed doors,
Remember that there is always a room outside.
When you take your binder off at night,
Listen to the rumble of constellations in your skin
Where every burnt-out star wishes they could rework themselves
To wrap around you in a new shape, one that feels right.
If you must laugh at slurs in fear of repercussion,
Know that the world owes you safety, and they have failed you.
When you press powder into your pores at dawn,
Feel every molecule embrace who you have not become,
Where you have always been your loving reflection
As the vanity counter breathes “I love you” before you’re gone
When your Tinder matches feel empty,
When the cigarette smoke unclogs your tear ducts
When you feel claustrophobic in the dark confines of your closet,
When the words fall flat and you grow tired of explaining yourself, over and over again,
Know that the reflection in your mirror still thinks you are beautiful
And all the stars in the sky still shine just for you
And the world still owes you safety, but they have failed you.
And no matter where you stand, sit or lie,
There will always be room for you here.
– For PJ
Girls are made of
And everything nice.
She is twirling across the gravel
On a rooftop in Haji Lane
Her arms stretch and spill feathers and cinnamon
My eyes water and sting
God, I wish you liked girls.
Continue reading “Girls”
When you fall in love with a witch
Rose petals and quartz points,
Clasped hands and incantations,
Whispering spirits in a tiny bedroom
Wide enough for the entire world
And the universe with it.
I need nothing else.
Continue reading “No More Love Poems”
Picture was taken from the inside of his house
I remember the bed shaking, trembling with the sounds of a fight. I remember how the walls exploded, my fists bleeding from having been clenched too tight. I held back, my tongue a blunt knife awaiting the sharpening stone.
Continue reading “From His Perspective – Broken”
And the clouds burst and their seeds dissolved – your tears blossomed into weeds that grew in the back of your mind.
Written on a bus on the way home, 3rd November.
1. It’s 8pm. I’ve been out since 3pm and so far I’ve sung my lungs out and stuffed my face with more Korean Barbecue than I ever thought I would ever consume in my lifetime.
2. You weren’t supposed to see me today, I think parting would’ve hurt less if you didn’t call me. But you wanted to be here on my birthday, even if it were only for a moment.
Continue reading “Möbius Trip”
Sometimes, I take a bus to nowhere in particular, watching it turn, maneuvering around tight bends, gentle nudging of caution sweeping the ashen roads. The city never changes, the buildings keep on building, not even the seasons, not even the people, not even a single voice cries out into the void.
“Donald Trump won.” He said. And the people, the trees, the buildings still building, raise their heads to the sky and laughed. And wept. And mourned. And laughed.
In times like these, everyone must stick together. Do not allow Trump to destroy the fight you have been fighting yout whole lives. Live out of spite. Thrive. And never give up hope.