Tag Archives: late night

Letting it slip

Your true insanity

Muffled, silenced screams,
A whimper the only indication
That you’re losing control

Hair scrunched and pulled tight
Pain to distract and peel away
At the expanding explosives
Within your
Itchy Twitchy Shaky
Tick Tock Rip
No, stop!

Screams, layered
Clawing, stiffening

Collapsing, deflated as she finally broke

Imploded, more like.

Careful, your crazy is showing.

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What is this 

Running alcohol

Of emptiness 

In between my lungs and at the centre of my lower spine.

Coldness appears like the chill unexpected at 4am after a night of tossing in humid Asia.

Mental tears forming and pooling

Empty eyes.

Fear, burrowing, curling. 

Slightest needles of agonising icy spears jabbing incessantly behind and above the breasts

Breathing getting tougher as nostrils seem to tighten and air gets sweeter.

Shrapnel sweetness of air, loneliness pains, clenched muscles in the calves and butt.
Loneliness beyond romantic and platonic friends and partners.

Loneliness in this universe, always expanding never ceasing to stop or slow down and each connection growing steadily further.
God is infinite. Is there and mind proportionate stretch of me between Him as the universe speeds on by?

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joji’s you suck charlie

swirling grey matter
drippings of glittery galaxies
sharp sweet shrapnel in each breath

shooting pains from between her tips
crackled brushes from those lips
staring down needles full of rust and iron

beautiful entitled whine
bloated cheeks and liver
spotted mottled jaws


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Understanding my fear of abandonment

Let’s break it down.

Fear of abandonment.
Afraid to be left behind, to be left alone, to be alone.
To be ignored.
Fear of neglect, silence, disregard.

Fear of a lack of care and concern.
Fear that I am unloved and unwanted.
Fear that I am not worth


Panic sets in with a fog of fury,
rage and discontent,
outrage and offence,
disbelief and shock.

Worry and anxiety
leading to a need for control
to “get them back”

win them back

their attention and attraction back
putting me once again at number one,
the only one,
nothing should precede me and what I mean to them.

Clingy, desperate, eager to please
yes yes yes to everything just to get a positive response,
to know I am wanted and desired again.
With that, I am therefore kept.

I won’t be alone and tossed aside and made worthless,
not worth time and effort or love.

Nothing else matters but them behaving as I wish them to be,
or even just how they were talking to me a couple minutes ago.
Even if I was the reason for the change in tone

because I suggested we slow things down
and they just leave me because I don’t want them

and they oblige instead of disagreeing and fighting for me

if they Do fight for me, they appear clingy and I get disgusted.


But when I do it, it’s the only thing that I can do. I can’t focus on anything else but trying to “get them back” and get things back to how they were, to being wanted and loved, to having them text me.

I don’t care that it’s 2am now compared to the 7pm then. That they have work tomorrow or are busy right now, even if they are showering. If they aren’t replying, that means they don’t want me anymore and they might even hate me and are going to ignore me and give me the silent treatment and pretend I do not exist.



My mom gives me the silent treatment and pretends I don’t exist when she’s angry at me.

When I do something wrong, my parents tell me what a disappointment I am, that their years of bringing me up was for nothing because I ended up like this. It was a waste of their time and effort raising me up, useless to have done anything to have loved me.

They said cruel things like I am the worst child, that I am nothing if my mother dies, that they won’t care if I live or die and I can go and die for all they care.

When they get angry at me, I feel like the worst, cruelest human being on earth, that I don’t deserve to have lived and I am evil. Ungrateful, evil, worthless, not worth being looked at or talked to, mentioned by name or acknowledged as a living being. I become nothing. Ranted about in the third person behind closed doors but with loud petty voice who intend for me to hear everything, yet not worth the effort nor for my existence to be acknowledged by even talking about me in front of me and having me be seen.


I would watch as they argued and my dad would blame my mom saying she was at fault for everything, while she told him how useless he was.

I listened and took it in too, because it would be used on me too, the same words. Taught not to get a man like my father, here are all the things NOT to get in a man. Anyone who looked at me and called me beautiful and took what I told them, repackaged and gave it back to me, paid me a smidge of attention, was worth my world. Sad.

I accepted these guys though I knew they weren’t good people or healthy for me because I accepted that my worth was that of being second choice. Never first. That’s why all the married men. Justifying with open marriages is but a weak way to assert my false self-worth to stubborn ol’ me. That’s why till now, part of me thinks that my exes’ breaking up with me because I wasn’t worth being the only one when he was still so young, and not talking to me for a whole week (radio silences) because studies > talking to me, which he felt were tedious like updating his life to a jail warden, are somehow justified.

Why should I be afraid to have them not text back or initiate conversations, to have other people in their lives that aren’t me, or not prioritize me over every and anything. That’s so needy. So dependent. I am worth so so much more.

It’s just not apparent enough to myself just how much I’m worth though.


Gotta fix the two of them. Self-worth tied to fear of abandonment, and I have to work on them or I will fall forever into this tar pit of murky, cloying desperation and fear, neediness and full-blown panic attacks, extreme behaviours and controlling habits.

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Before and Now

Things are louder now.


My ears hurt more; winces are common and confrontations make me curl up.

But the head is occasionally quiet, the screaming at the back no longer around. She must have moved on.

Back then, the emotions are greater, stronger, filling me up like nuclear explosions. Toxic yet captivating. It’s muted now.

Back then I felt more, touched more, connected and fell more. Believed more. There’s the cynic now, squinting away at the brightness of the present.

It was an explosion back then, loud and always expanding, never ending reaches and I felt reckless with how far my emotions spread. Now I see the barriers, I feel the control and the careful, logical constrains. 

Respond, not react.

But am I still me?

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Short story – rainy thoughts

Sitting on her cabinet, vying for space between the books, the toys, the mirror makeup graduation certificate documents; wind harassing the trees below. 

There are so many cars driving by at 1am, more than 7 to 10 people passing her by at 1 in the morning. Where are they all going, what were they doing this time of the night? It’s Tuesday night, shouldn’t everyone be in bed, preparing for the next work day? But she wasn’t in bed herself. 

She sent out her soul to below, to work the corner and the streets. To lift her shirt just far enough to ignite imagination without giving away her goods. She sent out her projected imagination (or was it her true identity?) to the scummy, filthy side of this clean and green city. The one where now 10-15 people were still awake and driving by, up to no good, getting involved with one another, exposing each others dirty little  (11-15) secret parts and shameful

The door swings open. With her window open, a vacuum effect was created, forcing her door to let out the emptiness from within her blue walls. She hopped off and rushed to shut the door before her parents woke, then trudged back to close the window before climbing back into bed.

Where was she? (12-17 by now) shameful hidden treasures, that only a wedded couple should be allowed access to. Not even you can get access to your own treasure trove, your pleasure is a dirty thing and should only happen by accident while in the middle of its true baby making goals.

She sent out her soul to the red light district, amidst the many dirty streets and dirty old men (some young but old in their extensive knowledge, how could a young man know so much without the experience that ought to come with age). Fishnet stockings, red cheeks, long fake eyelashes and puckered lips. Wink and smirk, trail those fingers. That’s how you get the thought of dirty deeds in their filthy minds the act of suggestion.

She pulled her soul out of the reaches the moment she sensed someone approaching. Too soon, she wasn’t ready, she was only playing at the idea. She wasn’t a slut, no, she’s still a good girl at heart. The pure pious one who was taught to be Christ’s bride and never to touch her secret area. She was only messing around with thoughts, thoughts that are not real and will not, can not be real. They do not exist in solid forms, only corporeal and therefore not a real sin. She’s not actually dirty.

Still she hears the grating of tires and brakes against wet gravel and she dreams of satin and silk, of rough leather scents and (here comes the hard splashes of rain against her window) and of chains and ropes and she wishes she were free from the shackles of her purity.

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White noise – a short story

She sat by the pier, absentmindedly pushing each bead forward with her thumb. The soft ocean breeze blew more salt into her already tangled hair, but her hair’s demise was not really a priority. In fact, everything that once mattered so dearly had been cast aside. All she had on her mind now was the tactile comfort of rough, stone beads going clack, clack, clack.

The briny sea assaulted her nostrils, pulling her back to her surroundings. Old men in white singlets and age-worn bermuda pants sauntered down the pier, expressions a curious mix of determination and weariness only a fishermen could carry. It was easy to spot the veterans and the saplings, simply by the sheer contrast in preparedness each party took for their day out fishing. While the experienced carried a single cooler and a well-used rod, the newcomers lugged coolers, backpacks, multiple brand new fishing rods (some with the tags still attached), and always the token straw hat.

She wondered if they realised the hats betrayed their wide-eyed inexperience more than their grimace and squeals at baiting a live worm. Clack, clack, as she tossed her head quickly and harshly, as though trying to dislodge a thought. Clack, clack, clack.  Bright, humid sunshine sprawled across her shoulders and cheeks, burning their warmth into her.

When was the last time she could safely visit any other place besides the pier without her noise-cancelling headphones, dark sunglasses and her rosary beads? She felt like a sham, carrying them around like a pious woman, giving off false impressions of purity, cleansing and soft church sounds. She sighed, feeling the beads snap against each other with each calculated push. When she grew tired of pushing them, she took to rubbing her thumb over the largest rosary bead, feeling the coarse landscape of its stony heritage. The worn out grooves and grainy sediments threatening to leave the bead smooth, but the constant rubbing and clacking made sure that their infinitely comforting textures prevented any betrayal.

She noticed the looks and whispers, of course. A woman alone with rosary beads by the pier, staring motionless out into the sea. Too young to be a nun, they whispered, unless she was jilted? Ignoring them made things harder, and sometimes it got so bad that she had to pull on her uniform of headphones and sunglasses for a whole 10 minutes before the clacking of her beads slowed down. Twice now, someone had approached her asking if she was alright, clearly worried she was suicidal. Back at the start, she tried to explain the noise sensitivity, the loudness of her mind, her need for tactile comfort but it only drew panicked looks fearing insanity. These days, she simply smiles and tells them that she’s fine and thanks them for being concerned, which is all they need to feel good about their kindness and empathy, and all she needs to get them off her back.

As the sun began to set, she stood up slowly and has a nice long stretch. Drawing her finger slowly over the stone, she whispered, “Soothe…”, exhaling as she did so, and brought herself back to reality; to life shouting in your face and to silence grating her skull as night pressed further on.

Clack, clack clack. “Soothe…” Clack, clack, clack. “Soothe…”

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Jumping between sweet nostalgia and fear lumping in the throat. Panic at the thought of meeting up and connecting, talking and sharing, fear and inability to breathe, constricted throat, wife awake tight lungs.

Sadness, salty singular drops down one cheek and tiny cold winds spreading across the chest before they’re sacked back in or blown away

by the suffocating paralysing fear of connecting and communicating and potentially reconnecting. 

Hunched shoulders making the body small tiny invulnerable protected and hidden 

The fear is big and swallowing me whole starting from the blocked throat tempting me to drag in deep puffs of oxygen and revive the cruel paradox of survival instincts, reaching throughout my belly and soles leaving them knotted and cold, that chill that can not be touched between the layer of atoms preventing us from truly touching anything, forever apart and forbidden true contact with everything for all we feel is the repelling of atoms against ours so the love and touch we draw our comfort from is false. A lie. We are only feeling their repulsion their rejection.

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No more. Moving on

I’m tired of downward spirals.

Mental health, physical health and emotional health will only get better from here on. Mistakes made owned up to, laziness acknowledged and just a whole lot more personal responsibility taken for the shit I do. 

That includes accepting the things I did not do and to love myself consistently, beyond mistake made and mistakes done to me. 

The planets are aligned to allow for self-realisation. All around me couples are ending their old commitments, as are people to themselves. They’re looking out for their own hearts, souls and future by sifting through the past.

I sifted through mine and found my heart still broken, found that behind the anger and hurt and bitterness was the young, innocent, fragile girl broken by the attention her body and energy attracted, broken by separating heart and body, love and sex. The one person she started to give her heart to smashed it to smithereens. He was unavailable and she took it, unable to believe that she could be wanted. She believed she was wanted and dreamed big until he revealed the lies he told through shared dreams and hopes and love.

That girl made an appearance again today when she thought of the boy she rejected for her first boyfriend, the one who she met at a time in her life when she was most detached from her heart, but told him she felt detached from him. The boy who loved so quickly she couldn’t accept it because she couldn’t love herself. And then she learnt that she could, but lost it again when she found out 8 months with her first love was all a lie.

If you’re reading this, Bug, I hope you know how sorry I am for hurting you. And I hope I’ll be able to say I’m sorry for what you had to experience rather than the apology I gave long ago that was simply a pity-party. 

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I am a woman

I am a woman.
I bleed once a month, for typically 7 to 10 days.
I crave food, chips, carbs and sleep the week before,
my mood dips and I cry while laughing at everything.

I am a woman.
I have hair on my legs, under my arm,
on my arm, on my crotch,
between my breasts,
under my belly button.

I am a woman.
I am blessed with the privilege of creating a child in my womb.
I won’t be judged for liking feminine clothes.
I can like men without being labelled “unnatural”.

I am a human.
I am able to feel a plethora of emotions and
I am also able to feel nothing at all.
I am a female human.
I am a woman.

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