like you never left

1/30

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 19:30:35 +0800

I can teach you how
to fold into yourself;
do not shy away
when he kisses you.

When his stubble
presses into your cheek

do not say no.
Believe him when he promises
it will feel good.

When his manhood
lodges into your mouth

pretend you are hungry
for him.
That you are aching.
You are a dog
frothing at the mouth.
Even if you feel nothing.

When the One You Wanted Did Not Want You

Fri, 08 Mar 2013 23:01:20 +0800

It was then that you learned
to crawl into yourself. To sacrifice your flesh
beneath men who claimed to love you until
your bones grew too heavy and they could
no longer bring themselves to touch you.

How many times did you slot
pieces of him into yourself? Hunt for the breaths he took
in your presence until you had enough skin
to dress up the skeleton of his memory?

And when you realised you are no god,
that you couldn’t breathe life into his ribs,
how many times did you set yourself on fire?

I love your writings.

Mon, 18 Feb 2013 20:40:47 +0800

Thank you friend.

Thoughts as He Sleeps Away from Me

Sun, 03 Feb 2013 20:40:00 +0800

Some days, I like to imagine
that perhaps he is grateful

I do not let myself believe him
when he tells me I am beautiful.

I imagine his sigh of relief,
a dying cigarette puff,

A last minute call back,
a twenty dollar note wedged in a Bible.

I imagine he fears the day
I begin to see myself as he does

Will be the one I leave.

Unteaching My Mother Love

Fri, 01 Feb 2013 22:11:47 +0800

When one carcass of a man convinced
you to love the stench of decay,
you set root in a landfill of his sin
and hung your heart on a cypress tree
for the vultures.

I wonder how many times he promised
loving an empty ribcage was worth
the gilded collapse into yourself.

Perhaps you were poisoned,
taught that chasing ghosts of men,
whose love letters caressed your eyes
like an afterthought, would mask
the taste of skeleton bones.

Mother.
You are not a dog.

It's Not That You Don't Remember, You Just Chose to Forget

Sat, 05 Jan 2013 00:50:00 +0800

It’s half past midnight. I’m sitting here not quite sure what to do with myself— or this blog.

It’s my birthday today marking two years since I started this blog. I never thought I’d stick to this blogging project. For two years, I’ve gained a great following, honed my poetic skill and met some lovely people I won’t likely forget any time soon.

But, between you and I, this blog had outlived it’s purpose and as all things which pass their sell-by date, it has to go.

I usually take birthday reflections to evaluate my life and see where I’ve come from and just where the fuck I’m going. There are days when I feel like my life is a car doing its best to maneuver through a thick fog only to careen off the highway and into the bottomless pit of some unseen abyss.

I’m going to do a two year reflection in this blog post. Because the double time span will help me see just how much I’ve traveled and how much further I have to go. Because this is final.

I began this blog as a fun way to procrastinate while I sat behind my desk, working as an intern at a court in Malawi. My future was uncertain, I was learning to love myself. Now, I’m living in Hong Kong. I really didn’t see this coming.
I’ve grown a lot as a person. I see things differently. Because of this, I’m unable to connect with the people I’ve outgrown. Sometimes, I miss them. Most times, I don’t.
Selective amnesia is funny thing.
I’ve grown a lot as a poet. I read the poetry I wrote two years ago and cringe. Maybe I’ll do the same two years from now.
I itch for independence and freedom. I’ve touched it. I’ve tasted it. I don’t want to lose it. Ever.
Over the past year, poetry has been my therapy. It takes time, but it works. I promise.
I wonder how long I can go on believing I’m still a teenager.
These past two years I’ve lied. I’ve been hurt. I’ve said things I didn’t mean. I’ve said things that I meant but not in the way I said them. Regret is not shame.
This life is a journey into ourselves. We are curious little creatures. Consider this body a forest. Each day, pray you find a new path to forgiveness. You deserve love. Even in the moments when you don’t.
I am still learning to love myself.

Photo

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 22:00:47 +0800

OOTD: Booties & an LBD

Wed, 19 Dec 2012 22:45:08 +0800

OOTD: Booties & an LBD

Dear John

Thu, 13 Dec 2012 23:55:00 +0800

Dear John
I am sorry
I forgot to hate myself.

My confidence was so ugly
you couldn’t stand
the sight of me holding
my shoulders back, my spine erect,
your ears bled at the sound
of my laughter.

Your memory
is a difficult name I keep trying to pronounce.
When you left me
my hands ran along your side of my bed
in the fashion of a tongue on the gums
where a tooth is missing.

How I could I possibly
love this skin, these bones,
these asymetrical breasts,
Silly me. How dare I
love the grotesque, that which
only you know how to embrace.
How could I possibly love
myself.

Dear John
I am sorry
I took to the dance floor
and moved
like I had conquered something.
That I used lip gloss as a sword,
the eye shadow palette
was war paint.

John
you gluttonous monster.
My everything
was never enough.

John.
I am sorry
I learned
how to forgive myself.

Deteriorate

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 22:00:40 +0800

On the morning you find lipstick
stains too bright to be yours on the collar
of the shirt you bought him last Christmas

Wash your mouth out with soap. Hide tissues
in your sock drawer, stand naked by the mirror,
watch your reflection with the lights off.

When finally he tastes the foam and stops kissing you,
fall asleep on the couch that is his bed,
douse his pillow in your sweat.

Burn your photographs.
All of them. And on the nights
your palms itch for him, remember the ashes.

Your Father

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 10:30:43 +0800

Your father.
He taught you how to dance
with one fist in your mouth.

To swallow
the drool around your teeth.
To use your fingers
as anchors to your gums.

When he failed
to root himself to the roof
of his mouth,
this is how you found him.

Pale.
Hollow.
Stretched thin.
Rinsed in his own spit.

..A love affair by Upile Chisala

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 10:00:45 +0800

How I wish I’d found a mocking bird
singing to a cherry tree,
laughing on a bending bough
starring at my feet, dear me!!
dear my!!
The Mocking Bird
it’d stare
it’d stare
it’d stare.
and mocking bird
and swinging bough
and blowing wind
and starring eyes
and dancing sun.
And contorted clouds
hornet’s nest
Kneaded dough.

I want to see this cherry tree
Bitter boughs
Sheen brown skin
That has made a wandering bird
fall so deeply in love
tossing away its teasing tongue,
its sneering roar.

The Malice of a Fish Hook

Tue, 04 Dec 2012 22:44:00 +0800

He is the kind of man to be kissed
with one eye open. The type to sew
your lips shut because he likes his
women silent. Rather loud aren’t you?

Your dark eyes, your wide mouth.
Even the pores of your skin scream
in rebellion. But so long as he butchers you
open until there is not an ounce more of you

To devour, you shall return to him. And when
he disappears with the dusk, will you forget
him as the one whose hands tore at your limbs
with the impatience of a king cobra and

The malice of a fish hook? Will you forgive yourself then
for the blood stained bathroom sink? The ripped clothes?
All of them? After all dear girl, when he painted your skin
blue, it was you who mistook each scar for a promise.

This is an essay written by a college applicant to NYU. The author was accepted.

Thu, 29 Nov 2012 22:14:00 +0800

3A. IN ORDER FOR THE ADMISSIONS STAFF OF OUR COLLEGE TO GET TO KNOW YOU, THE APPLICANT, BETTER, WE ASK THAT YOU ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTION: ARE THERE ANY SIGNIFICANT EXPERIENCES YOU HAVE HAD, OR ACCOMPLISHMENTS YOU HAVE REALIZED, THAT HAVE HELPED TO DEFINE YOU AS A PERSON?

I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row. I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I’m bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie.

Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don’t perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400.

My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy.

I once read Paradise Lost, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations with the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin.

I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

But I have not yet gone to college.

"It was now that we were both in the same place, didn’t know how to say the words. With my..."

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 11:20:03 +0800

“It was now that we were both in the same place,
didn’t know how to say the words.
With my heart ticking like a bomb in a birdcage,
I left before someone got hurt.”

- What I Wouldn’t Do, Alison Sudol

Heritage

Sun, 25 Nov 2012 22:00:00 +0800

You are your mother’s child,

therefore you are doomed to be

destroyed by that which you cannot own.

She kept your father’s rib cage warm

while his heart danced in the arms

of another woman. On nights he could not bear

to bring himself home to her, she carried you

on her lap and crooned in your ear “Embrace the impending

breaking of your bones, young girl. Even that rain you

love so much will make a rust bucket out of you.”

No one taught me how to be good to myself.

Thu, 22 Nov 2012 10:00:20 +0800

Me: They tell me pain is beautiful.

Tue, 20 Nov 2012 10:00:34 +0800

Me: They tell me pain is beautiful.
Him: No. It's not. It's one of the ugliest things on this planet.
Me: So they were wrong?
Him: Yes.
Me: So what I'm going through.... This suffering... If it's not beautiful then what is it?
Him: Ugly. Who ever told you pain is beautiful is a liar.
Me: .......
Him: You know what is beautiful though? Endurance. Survival. The strength in knowing you have not been broken.
Me: ........
Him: .........
Me: At what point will I know I'm healing?
Him: When the ache in your chest no longer reduces your ribs to asphalt.

Haiku of the Day

Sun, 18 Nov 2012 10:00:17 +0800

Your reflection is

a stranger you kiss with one

of your eyes open.

Sure as the crook in you arm, the growling hunger in your belly, the air in your lungs, that...

Sat, 17 Nov 2012 10:00:19 +0800

Sure as the crook in you arm,

the growling hunger in your belly,

the air in your lungs, that which

needs to live shall and death should

never be mistaken for mortality.