like broken china

i.
i guess it is because these days
seem borrowed.
elusive and slippery like
dead snow catching my feet.

there is a disturbance in my reflection.
frayed with a stream of thoughts 
that translate into static in my ear
white noise at the most silent of nights;
white noise of the troubled.

cold air rises
in the tundra of my skin;
these shallow waters hold no more secrets for me.
the surface is black
leaving no reflections afloat
and no salt for the wounds.

courage, let me wade in
to the unknown
until i reach the depths
and face the risks
one never meets
when one is an island.

perhaps i will find answers,
in the waves, in the forgotten stories
of shipwrecks that have grown to become
beautiful, colourful coral kingdoms.

perhaps i will hear the sea sing, and finally 
be able to come home.

ii. 
i can hear it all when i look in.

these tears are tired, dipped into the
sunken contours that tell stories,
and emerge for the days that fail the sun.
they carry the troubles of a young woman
who feels aged like oak
and the guitar that mounts above the doorway,
rusted and mute.

they call me a saint,
but who am i a saint for? and what happens to saints who 
lose their cause,
and forfeit their sanity?

something has passed on to the netherworld.
it is weightless but it lingers,
the lost soul in our unseeing eyes.
maybe it happened in the dark of my womb
maybe it happened in a coffin of words i brought to therapy
maybe it happened in my mother’s dug up sorrow
maybe it happened in the waking nights of lashing grief,
in the spaces where our breaths catch 
and fall under our gaze.

a pile of shine, unnoticed and unscathed.

i know of its all-encompassing beauty,
i feel the burden of its hope,
so rewarding, so exhausting.
i keep the windows open,
so it is always within sight, 
but a framed perception is far less confident 
than the bigger picture, 
where i could touch everything with all of my being
to become all i was to be.

i walk out in joyful sorrow
memorising life
feeling every energy that surrounds me.
i feel like i live in the centre of a mandala
casting shadows,
and once you are part of, you are part of,
for this is a solid structure, a shelter for the broken.
it is my home, i have learnt to know its
nooks and towering pillars,
i have also learnt its escape routes
in case of an earthquake.

i have always been a cautious person.

gently, gently,
i lift my arms up,
and caress it all.
i stroke the wind,
i kiss the moon,
i hold the rain,
and i weep.

i weep for how beautiful and free it all looks
when you are standing at the furthest end of the spectrum
and this gravity is firmly holding you in place. 

iii.
my hands are shaking,
from conducting this orchestra
playing to the scores of my life, on & on,
the final note still unwritten.

my hands are shaking uncontrollably, 
but they cannot fall

not yet.

my sentiments are real,
glistening in the canvas of evening skies,
strange-like and refracted in the hum of the universe.
these sighing doubts
keep me chained within my own reach.
i believe my heart is shrinking or
maybe it is just the world expanding,
leaving me behind.

the walls are heavy on my eyes,
and all i want to do is sleep where my fears hide, 
lying just under my breath, within orange 
peel and chocolate wrappers.

the hours do not seem plausible,
ticking away like mockery
moving at a pace unparalleled to mine.
i don’t remember how to realign.

this is familiar, but not the comforting type.
i cannot be comfortable here.

i cannot become numb.