Walking

I used to glare

At people who said

"People who commit suicide are cowards"

I used to hate them very much

Because you see

I was once

One of those 'cowards'

And sometimes still am

I could never understand

How can someone

Stare at Death in his face

And still be a 'coward'

I’ve seen so many others

Cowering under him

So for us 'cowards'

How are we considered 'cowards'?

Until someone told me

"Dying is easy. Anyone could do it.

Living is a challenge. Only some complete it."

But I hated that person too

But those words

Kept ringing in my head

Echoing, going round

Refusing to stop

And I begin to notice

How death was really

The easy way out

It took away everything

And I begin to realize

How difficult living is

How battle-worn and scarred

I was becoming each day

And I finally understood

Why only some are

Able to complete

This trial 'living'

But I still

Do hate those who call

Suicides 'cowards'

Because not everyone can look in Death's face

I prefer another term

'Lost hope'

Because that's what they (and sometimes I)

Truly are

Be someone's candlelight, will you?

Happiness

“I like him. I really do,” I said, not daring to meet your eyes, “But he isn’t the one who will make me happy.”

“Isn’t happiness something you decide?” you smirked at me, “Just make yourself believe you’re happy, like you always do,” you said, so calmly, like it didn’t bother you.

I glanced up for a second, meeting your eyes, before letting my eyes dart away. I didn’t say a thing. How could I? You’ve already made up your mind and I should have known by now that this was nothing more than a fling. Still, the ache in my heart refused to stop hurting.

“What’s up? Why the sad face?” you studied my face. I shook my head. “I need to go,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. I untangled myself from your arms, suppressing a shiver from the sudden chill. I looked around the room, looking for my missing clothes.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your hair in disarray, causing you to looking even more arresting. “What’s wrong? You know you can tell me anything…” your voice trailed off, unsure of how to respond to my sudden coldness.

I ran a hand through my already bedraggled hair. “What if I can’t?!” I spun around, tears stinging my eyes. “What if I can never be happy with him? No matter how much I try to make myself believe it?” my heart was thumping furiously as I pulled on my clothes. How could you not understand? “What if you’re the only one who can make me happy? Then what?”

You stared up at me, stunned. “I…I…” your brows furrowed.

Frustrated, I grabbed my bag and walked out of the room, not even bothering to look back.

“Meina! Wait!”

“What for? I’m just wasting time here!” I cried out.

“I’m sorry,” your arms came around me and held me tightly. “I can’t. This is the best I can do. I thought you understood.”

“So did I,” my voice barely above a whisper, "So did I, Leo," I struggled out of your arms and run out the door, knowing but refusing to acknowledge that I would come back sooner or later anyway.

Smelling the Roses

The tea's gone cold now
Music has faded into the night
You feel its cooling breeze against your skin. Despite that,
You still feel the heat

I hear Josh Groban crooning
His voice melodious and soothing
I’m in a sanctuary you can't get in
I feel safe, finally

He imitates the acts of others
Failing to recognize the loss
He loses himself in the course
Forgetting who he was at the beginning

She takes off her masks
And lets her clothes fall
We watch her fall from grace
As we realize the ugliness between

You sing loudly and unrestrained
Making everyone cringe
Unknowingly they fall under your enchantment
Your sinister smile grows

I let go of your hand
And run free along the darkened skies
I smell the magic in the air
I feel amorous tonight

He guides us along a rocky road
Dancing and spinning all the way
As we struggle to keep up
He disappears into the moonless midnight

Her hands bloodied and sore
Still rhythmic and steadfast
She moves elegantly
Weaving her enchantment around us all

Your hands create exquistry
Magnifique screams out loudly
Finesses undeniable in your works
They stop for a second glance

I dance along the cliff's edge
Unafraid to fall into the chasm below
Knowing you'd be there to catch me
I smile and release my inhibitions

His hair like molten honey
Shines brightly in the twilight
We follow the mystical light
To reach this Adonis figure

Flawless she is
As she pirouettes majestically
Her cold blue eyes pierce your very soul
And only you see her cruelty within

Buried Under

"It's called 'soul murder'. That's what you're talking about, aren't you?" her hushed tones, afraid to break the silence. Amber eyes stare back at yours, waiting in anticipation. You look at her, tears forming at the corner of your eyes, unable to answer her. "Oh god..." she whispered, reaching out to hold your now trembling form, "Oh god, my baby." She cries for you, crying the tears that you refuse to let go of, holding you tightly, as if you would slip away.

Then again, you might. Just so that it would all go away; the unwanted memories that terrifies and shakes the very core of your heart. Because even though you said you're all over it now, you still can't believe that it happened to you. Till today, you can't bear to say the word out; you can't bear to tell others what happened to you. It's a heavy burden and a huge secret that you carry. One that you can't really tell others in fear of their reactions.

Some might pretend that it never happened. But you know differently. No matter how much you try to hide from it, or how far you can run from it, you know that it'll always come back. And you can't do anything to stop it. You can cover your ears and close your eyes; you can probably pull the covers over your head as well. But it'll still be there, waiting, haunting you, and never releasing you from its claws.

Others might pity you; sympathy in their eyes every time they look at you. Trying to understand what you're going through, or worse; pretending to know what you're going through. But they don't really understand; they don't really know. They can try, but they will never. And you'll hate it. Being pitied, having others pretending to understand. You just want to scream at them and call their bluff. The hypocritical people who only wish to help.

Certain people might hide from you. They'll run away, leaving you even more lonesome and insecure than before. But you can't stop them. They have a right to choose; free will, which sometimes isn't that great after all. You start doubting yourself, and stop trusting everyone. You’ll barricade yourself in, refusing to let anyone see within you. Hiding from everything and anything, losing yourself in the process. But then again, you'll never know. Not until you tell them.

Picture By : Royston Toh

Dreams

My hand, he takes. 

So tightly, he grasps. 

Like in a moment, I would disappear. 

Laughter, so naïve, 

Like the children we once were, 

Before the poisoned world tainted us. 

Smiles, so secretive, 

Hiding things that shouldn’t be seen, 

Like they always do. 

Tears, bearing your souls, 

Displaying things that should be concealed, 

Obscuring things that should be exhibited. 

Jealousy, a disgusting emotion, 

Hindering a rational thought, 

Presenting only irrational ones. 

Hate, a black cloud, 

Masking the goodness within, 

Like a rotten apple that can’t be eaten. 

A melody, so melancholy, 

Filling your soul, killing your spirit,

Washing away your heart. 

Grotesque, the dance is, 

Creating a nightmare ballet, 

So intoxicating, you can’t escape. 

So sweet, a dream is, 

Like a rose and its thorns, 

Bleeding you dry when you least expect it. 

Shaking my head,
I wake up, 

As remnants of the dreams wash away. 

Picture By : Royston Toh 

Picture Edited By : Yours truly

Old Flames and Passionate Nights Series

The Morning of Yesterday

 You walked in; heels dragging on the rosewood floorboards, shoulders slumped. You looked as though you have not slept well in days; world-weary and wanting to give up. I sensed your presence way before I saw you. What was it that made you so special?

“Hey…” you sighed, as you dumped yourself on the wooden stool, “What’s the strongest thing you have here?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Drinking away your problems? That’s new.”

“Yeah well, that’s all I can think of right now. And there’s something about this place that somehow makes me feel better.”

“Huh… Even so, you shouldn’t be drinking the problems away.”

“Yeah. Whatever. Can you just get me the strongest thing you have?”

I shook my head as I got to work; my body moving automatically after months and years of practice. I wondered briefly if you still like lemon-flavored drinks.

“Here,” I said, slamming the whiskey glass on the table, spilling some of the mix, “Enjoy,” sarcasm evident in my voice. You looked up, shocked.

“You know I can complain to your boss about this,” you said haughtily, spoiling for a fight.

“Well, go ahead, ‘cause she’s standing right in front of you,” I shot back.

Your eyes widened. Obviously, nobody kept in touch with you. “You own this place?”

“Yeah, anything wrong with that?” I challenged, raising my chin.

“No… No… I just thought… well that this was temporary… that you’d go back doing your PhD…” you struggled to make sense of it all.

“As I said, people change.”

“That’s obvious,” you eyed me up and down, as if seeing me for the first time in years. Defiance swept through me. A bar job had requirements and one of them was the skimpy clothes.

“So,” I leaned forward, “What’s bothering you? You never drank your problems away before.”

“Problems… Trina… You know the rest…” you mumbled, as you picked up the whiskey glass and sniffed it carefully, “Hey… this smells lemony!”

I shrugged, “Sun under the Tropics; another house special,” I paused for a moment, “Actually most of our drinks are special. Of course we do offer the usual though.”

You sipped the mixture cautiously, as if you expected it to explode anytime soon, “What’s in here? It tastes like lemon juice…”

I smirked, “Maybe because it is?” I turned and walked away, “You shouldn’t be drinking your problems away. Get up and solve them,” I said to you as I walked away, leaving you there speechless.

You left your drink on the bar as you run after me, “What time do you end? Can I take you out?”

I cocked an eyebrow, “Does the phrase ‘You have a girlfriend’ ring a bell in your thick head?”

You stepped back stunned. You did not expect the harsh tones or the cruel words. “Hey, I was just asking. If you don’t want to then it’s fine with me. Didn’t need that,” you bit out, before turning around, “Wished I hadn’t come,” you muttered as you grabbed your coat and walked out of my bar.

Once again, I stared at your receding back, torn between the desire to run after you and the need to walk away like did before.

Picture By : Royston Toh

Three Hundred and Sixty-Five Letters

I remember writing you a hundred love letters after you went away. They asked why you had to go and if you missed me like I missed you. Each one told you how much I missed your scent and your laughter ringing around the house. Each letter asked if you still remembered our dreams together.

I remember writing you a hundred hate letters after you went away. They cursed you for putting me through such pain. They hoped you would suffer a fate worse than mine. They wished you would realize your mistake and come running back to me so that I could turn you down. Each one soaked with tears.

I remember writing you a hundred letters after you went away. They asked you how have you been and where are you now. They told you of my life in the aftermath of a relationship. They told you of my new life without you. Each one filled with regret and a small hope of what-could-be’s.

I wrote you a total of three hundred letters after you went away. Three hundred letters that I never sent. Three hundred letters that I burnt when December came. Then I wrote another sixty-five letters. To myself. Telling myself that it was time to move on. And when the last letter was written, I begin to walk again.

Picture By : Royston Toh