india’s daughter, nirbhaya
the bus totters and she feels the rumble
from her feet to the ceiling with the driver throwing
fingers at horns blaring and lights flashing
past so fast her eyes get stuck
she clasps her purse tight.
close to her chest, eyes that leave their sticky gazes
this isn’t a game
it’s survival and her weapon’s the way she weaves her posture
how she curves so far forward her back bows,
head slamming the floor, she submits
and she bows to the clammy hands – cold with desire
cool night air like fire on her cheek and she submits
every cry becomes the rod they slam break her with
every push becomes a skip in her heartbeat, so quick-
ly her legs go limp, lifeless
and she’s claimed by the night sky
her purse forgotten, flung aside.
for each star that twinkles, she releases her grip
trembling but steady, she submits.
she submits to how her body’s been beaten into a question mark
and how her only weapon’s become her vulnerability
and though she has burnt with the fire
she is fearless, she is Nirbhaya
and to them she will never submit.
the story of a desperate hyacInth
i met a boy prettier than a flower
Midas hands hold gentle but
desperate and
greedy
this is to all the flowers i’ve loved before
for every petal i tore and leaf i ripped
it seems like i’ve been here before, i’ve done this
but boys all look like flowers
colours like roses and tulips
kissed my lips before I could rip it
i’m a violent pink, i’ll admit it
but at least i don’t strip it and stick it
like boys when they like it
when it helps to satisfy it
still i plucked a sweet flower
and was pricked by a sweet flower
because i sold myself for a sweet flower
and then for every flower i plucked
it pricked
and it split me right down through the implicit
so i will wander gardens until i taste the sweetest
until my Midas touch turns my vain prayers
into pretty boys and pretty flowers,
and i will rip and pluck and prick
until boys can satisfy it
for this is the story
of a desperate hyacinth
image credits: ‘ria munk on the deathbed’ (1912) by klimt
1999, 19
ever since a young child, my favourite number has always been 9. it’s probably because of my birth year.
born 1999, aged 19.
i can still remember what happened a year ago when the clock struck 12. i was in the midst of prelims, feeling so suffocated i could barely breathe. my whole life revolved around studying and keeping up with my social life. i remember clutching my phone, looking at the screen and hoping someone cared enough to wish me a happy birthday. despite the texts that popped one after another, i felt an emptiness in my stomach. i sat on my bed, crying, while typing thank you messages that sounded so fake even to me.
this year, after meeting Christ in School of Witness 2018 (SOW18 for short), i realised that i simply stopped giving a shit. meeting Him gave me a new perspective on life. from fear, came new life and a certainty that my worth lies far beyond affirmation in the form of birthday wishes.
during a prophetic prayer for my friend’s birthday celebration a few months ago, i received a message from God which came to mind when my very own birthday came around. He reminds me that birthdays are not just a milestone of another 365 days passing. it is a celebration of life, a thanksgiving in remembrance of love washing over me every single day.
so this post is for the big man upstairs :-) thank You for saving me and for showing me how love has transformed me – from broken to whole, lost to found, orphaned to child of God. Love sought for me when I hid from fear that no one could love me just as i am. i thought then that i was made to be unworthy, that life would just be struggle after struggle. Love found me just as I am and He calls out for me to come just as I am. birthdays are a celebration of life and i celebrate new wine and the breath (bread heh) of life breathed into me.
A – B – C i’m sorry
she’s afraid of losing soulmates no room for mistakes she doesn’t get that this fear’s only in her head
her mouth flows like a waterfall and it takes down every loved one and every stone that washes away there’s an abyss in its place
her words can’t help but twist and suffocate she’s too LOUD and she’s too soft and she’s too much she drives people away
she never meant what she said
just forget what she said
who the hell cares what she said
A for a grade but the language threatens to make her know her place beat her into shape until she’s left with the ghosts that stayed
she guesses that because since young she’s been trained since there’s no way it’s her
the fault’s in the grammar!
it can’t be her manner
it can’t be the way she criticises every emotion action affection
the fault’s in the punctuation?
it’s not her, it’s never her
see, even the language will apologise on behalf of her me
A – B – C
i’m sorry
C – D – E
the fault’s in me.
Protected: heterochromia iridum: how i feel entering uni
it’s 1961 and you’ve pulled over
it’s just a few hours after midnight and your hand is tight on my waist. everything feels right.
a warm breeze brushing against my cheek and along with it, elvis crooning in harmony with our heartbeats.
i’ve never seen eyes so consuming.
the car’s headlights illuminate and we sway and we sway and we sway and every touch we make, we make alike under the permission of the moonlight.
my skin burns with every clumsy stumble and god- the laughter that follows next, echoing and bouncing off distant lights that rest on your silhouette.
gently, you steady me and i’m afraid that if i let go, i’ll step on your toes and the jokes not on you-
i find that love makes me a fool for you.
everything feels right but not quite.
my hands fight to catch the light but yours catch mine.
this is a battle you’ve won.
and all i want is to stay in my 1961.
my achilles heel
maybe i’ll die young
maybe from an arrow to the heel from every
accusation and misrepresentation
maybe because I overthink and overdrink,
overdress and overguess and i see thoughts as hail
and when they come crashing, i stand still
i know i am invulnerable where the waters had kissed me, but the ice reaches my feet
and i forget to
breathe
and i forget that i am loved and that i am
free
and that i am saved not slave to the
heartbeats
or the sound of the music
and i become the stick lingering between lips
and i become the smoke that clings to my fingertips
and i become the ashes of my every single attempt at the ideal
and i become the arrows that burn straight towards my achilles heel
new wine
hello
decided to revamp and give life back to this space of mine. i’ll be entering university later this year and i wanted an outlet to not just share my poetry in, but my personal thoughts and reflections, as well as my spiritual life. a scrapbook on screen?
i participated in School of Witness 2018, a 2 month long discipleship programme where I experienced a love like no other. i found true freedom within the hands of my gentle Father and an embrace that began a journey towards His heart. new wine has been poured into this new wineskin of mine and i now live with conviction that i am for a greater purpose. i live with trust in this reckless God of mine, who loves me for who i am and not what i can do. my life is His and so is my heart.
‘Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you’ – Matthew 17:20
Walking Ocean
I’m a walking ocean
2nd choice and never a first chance; option
Baby he’s blueberry and black like beads on a priest’s rosary
Passively aggressively thinking fist bumps are his holy
But I shadow myself and keep my hands on my lap
My mind a tap and my mouth a faucet
My legs are like hands on a clock, my dear
Friends
They’re holding and handling and hurting and
I’m stuffing and stuttering and
Stammering words into his captivating-
Dear Lord,
They say
When the mouth touches the surface
His hands start to shake and chafe
But I keep thinking there’s chalk and
I start to trace fingerprints on his face
Or I spill my brain
Stuck in my stand and aching, trading
His shadow for his fingerprints but
I can’t help but recognise the art in how
He walks, talks, how he
Gestures and how he
Grip his words so tenderly-
I swear my mind’s a mess and
Everything I revolve around has a core
And I guess your core is how you make me
Run and flee and how I
Fear if we kissed we’d knock teeth, I
Fear if you took a step I’d not run but leap
To you away from you I don’t know you but I want to know you and I hate loving how you-
But it’s not you
It was never about you.
Maybe it’s your hands or the way you
Shape and exist as a ‘seem’
How you make me curl into a water body
How I fear if we unravel, we’d be tangled then strangled when
I find that I was just grasping your hands and it was
Never about the look or the shadow or the stance
But the heartbeat and the stomach flip
Or maybe my irrational sense
But sweetheart
I’d recognise those hands
Anywhere, everywhere
You’ve made an ocean out of me
When all I wanted was a sea of tranquillity
So if I’m an ocean, you’ve triggered tsunami
nicole ann 