No End to Start

(after Marylyn Tan’s ‘re: origin story / ARCHETYPAL EVIL’)

Being immortal is being
sated about being salted
in cycles – day and night
the pry and shut of eyes.
Once, Ah Kong was young
and fleshed out, peachy
with beginnings. A fool,
not knowing that fruiting
is the end, or figurative –
how time is tried, tested
as a painter being tired
of the biggest canvas.
Not the cosmos, but in
housing a weary start.

*Ah Kong: Romanization of the Chinese noun “阿公”, meaning Grandfather.

Rut

Tonight, I deconstructed love
into a thousand paper cranes.
I don’t even like folding cranes,
like the long wait. Like teleology,
my hands were always destroying
paper; fold my neck to cognize down.
Crane, just to be blinded by flight.
My hands were always sweating,
slipping thoughts of you into vacuum;
all directions evaporate in departure,
and these hands cannot give warmth.

Murphy’s Law for Interstellar Fissures

One night, I swallowed a planet.
Two moons later, a wrong word
shifted a wormhole via bad praxis.
Using language as a fork for soup:
these tears I stippled on my cheeks
where they should be rolling down.
Another night of failed application.
When you deconstruct my apologies
in a black hole, all sentiment is lost
like the wormhole above. Speaking,
when I cannot hear myself in space.
It’s not like you heard, or replied.

The Immiscibility of Cosmic Regrets

Between us, the brane that
makes universes parallel.
What is perpendicular: pain
if we ever intersect. Your foot
pressed on my stomach is an
allegory for rejection, and up
for it: more unloved things
aside from me; Or geometry
where two points make no line;
The star that failed to shine.
As constellations, we are near
on paper. In paper you blazed
like an unwanted poem you
& I line break. & I felt cold.

Circular Arguments For Spiral Despair

Determinism was true. See:
All events from the start
end in us not fated to be.
I placed it at knifepoint
just to cry at the impossible:
Somewhere in the Ming
you were sipping wine.
In 30s Shanghai, I drank
to serve men. Always
a disservice to myself.
Servicing these timelines,
they turn into a square, an
opposition. Stars aligning
into queues into spirals
into nadir into breaths
of what has always been.
Somewhere in here I died
during the war. Somewhere
was a place we never met.

Week 4

How do I place it in words – Part of me strongly finds Tembusu a mistake; The other insists that it has always been the right decision.

Former argues that you listened to her, made her the reason, which resulted in a terrible choice. Latter retorts by saying that the Former is overthinking: “You are causing your own misery.” Former, at a loss of words, says that you should never have met her. Latter tries to find something to pick at, and concludes that you need to settle your own emotions before it destroys you.

Former always goes into a downward spiral. Former is asking many questions: “Why am I so ugly”, “Why did I fall for her”, “Why am I vying for her attention as if I were desperate for love”, “You haven’t changed since 10 years ago, haven’t you”, “Will you ever learn”, “Is there beauty”, “Why am I so hideous”, “Is it because she no longer has time for me”, “Why am I so selfish”, “Why, why, why”.

Latter exhales: “Clearly you went in with very high expectations – The returns are simply awful.”

Latter continues: “Clearly, she is a friend. She will always be. Find another phase.”

Former, not listening, mentions: “You’re transgender – You do not deserve love. You’re disgusting. Remember how people forget to use “she” when referring to you. Remember how someone mentioned that there are only 6 girls when there’s 7. Remember how the state fails to recognize you. Remember how you can never be the woman you want to be. Remember how the moment she stopped singing your praises, and you realized that you were petty, ugly, undesirable, jealous, and all the longkang metaphors became true and your being is stained to the last grime.”

Latter, also not listening, says: “Do not tie your self-worth to her.”

Latter ends with: “I’m going to give up.”

Waking

As I dragged a sunbeam you stopped
smiling at me. Made my own morning
like a nostalgic breakfast. Found the sun
in these eggs, scrambled and dispersed.
This stanza is diagnosed with Jaundice
and not the above conditions. I escaped
from dreams, coming to terms with yellow
eyes; Things uglier than the summer heat
frothing inside me. Brushed away yellowed
teeth instead of your rays that pierced me.
I watched you, having the autonomy of a star.