sometimes you wish these things will fall into place on their own, and you wouldn’t need to think much about it.

but reality says otherwise.

that’s okay

it’s not like anyone really liked me anyways.

it just means i’ll be back to where i’ve always started.

i hate it.


sweet little dahlia,
you sit sweetly in a vial,
your odour is so vile
like an adulterated ophelia.

you tread quietly,
with determination so grand;
why dress so bland,
when you think so mildly?

having no shame,
fingertips on wine,
fill the room with whine
as you spread the blame.

but beneath the skin
you weep weakly,
i see your eyes – so meekly –
but your strings are so thin.

i’ll calm your nerves
to mend turmoil that rests,
but so shall i tongue your breasts
for i am none but one who serves.

forgive me for being crass
but i must be true,
as i am filled with rue,
and you, a lass.

When No One Speaks your Language

There were two things my mother would always tell me when I was growing up in the little farming/industrial town of what is now Brampton. One was, “don’t forget to put your face cream on”, or more accurately truncated to, “face cream!” The other was, “you have to know how to defend yourself, because no one in this world is pure-hearted enough to do it for you.”

She still tells me to do these things to this day. And traditional Chinese proverbs I can’t remember – I don’t have the linguistic expertise as she does to remember poetry that comes from the little village in Calcutta – or, rather, Kolkata, because Calcutta no longer exists.

It’s funny to note that Canton – the province in China that a good chunk the Hakka Liu and Teng ancestry, presumably, were concentrated in – also no longer exists. We can make castles from of our bare hands, but the only materials we have are sand, sweat, and our own blood.

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