dear fig,

i remember you especially on Sundays.

our once deemed mindless chitter chatter, is what i remember in love and sadness. lately, it seems these two emotions have been coupled, as if weaved into unity. it’s odd, i can’t quite understand why, just yet. we were some thousand miles away from one another, but i’ve never felt closer to you, since. our conversations were brimmed with dark humour, dramatising incidents, imitating accents. blown bubbles of reminiscent and nostalgia. we seldom brought up the darker parts- i didn’t mind and neither did you. it was as if we had an unspoken agreement not to, a secret handshake – a code known to no other apart from ourselves.

we were so little, there was such lightness; despite the tunnelling escape, we were forced to slide through. not unscathed of course. there were all sorts of wounds, both gapping and shallow. yours healed a little quicker, but we know how scars are. some days, we’re unconscious of it’s existence and forgetful of how they even came to be. others, well…it’s a little like running your fingers across your skin and stumbling upon the bumps, once flapping open with gushing red.

it’s time for bed soon. the sky was crimson this evening – a beautiful kind of red, still violent but far away from us. in the setting distance, amidst glowing clouds from the warm sunset. i think you might have seen it from where you were.

please write soon, i would love to hear from you.

fondest thoughts,


dark morning

this morning, rising in a scurry; I gathered my sheets into a bundle. before the shrill sounds leapt from my alarm clock, pulling myself across the room and into another. there was little light, begging to be let in. at it’s call, I turned my cheek across to face a separate place. the windows remained unopened; I watch as light shifts.

some morning’s are filled only with sheets of ignorance, not the accidental sorts but rather; some you are fooled into believing – they do not exist. your grogginess, too much cake you had eaten the night before; the gurgling in your belly as if moving across acres of land. on darker days; the unsteadiness of setting your feet into a new day.

Fig #2

dear fig,

this summer, you missed the salty earth; wrapping themselves tight, and crashing violently into waves. do you remember the days, prickly with heat. we would trudge the soles of our feet into ochre powdery grains, and watch as they sinked themselves deeper. our backs burnt and glistening; from sunlight. pearls of sweat, appearing on flesh, dancing amongst the reflection of day’s light.

we would imagine the moist, innocent seaside sandbanks as quicksand. ‘we’re sinking! our feet’s disappearing!’ we’d squeal in excitement, a partial half-hearted fear, in suspense that they were actually ‘sinking’. In an heroic attempt escape, you yanked your ankle with great force and proclaimed ‘there! i’ve escaped! hurry, let’s go back before it gets us again’. we’d stay ankle-deep just long enough to watch the bubbling water fill the depressions; where our feet were buried. often, tangled weeds and the odd pebble latched unto spaces between our toes. this did not bother us too much, did it? perhaps we were caught too much in awe, at the magic trick the ocean has been performing with our footprints. it’s disappearance, and reappearance; within split seconds and limited action.

i remember our days with fondness, and this one in particular; and the others that followed closely, shortly, and further into distant days. i would like to write to you more often (even if they might not reach you/you might not read them nor/or reply) too often lately, i have become distracted with everything that is happening inside and outside of me. my breath, cannot be silenced or still. i recall what was once good, even and especially; in our momentary childishness.

all my love,


dinner ghost

the slippery presence of a child, remains in an unmoving position. a pause, both gapping and emptied over piled years of absence. my disappearance was no mystery; but instead a  golden ticket of goodwill and gratitude, on my mother’s own part. as for the sundays that fell by coincidence, on special occasions; my role was simply to abide, visible in presence, no matter how unwilling in spirit or heart.

soon, although slowly; i am allowing myself to seep out of this unnecessary task. i am beginning to learn, my existence at the dinner table is simply a comfort to the guilt, these others hoard from years of neglect. their hands, flee from sparks; at the possibility of catching fire. allowing myself to gradually relearn the practice of releasing my grip; i latch unto filial responsibilities too fiercly; and let loose, much too seldom.

cast away

it grew into a struggle; the ability to write clear and simply about what went on inside my mind. thoughts, would dart towards one another with such violence, and vengeance. not in innocent eagerness, of being expelled or expressed. they behaved brashly, without concern for anything but it’s own presence. as if it were some holy gift, to grace all in existence; only by it’s sheer being.


glitter is not gold

a stranger, whom I know a limited well of information about; looks me in the eye. he does not mean to pry, and does not do so with force nor sly intention. approaching with steady caution, he maintains remarkable tact through his thoughtful speech; as he asks ‘what makes you feel uncomfortable about it?’ I understand, in absolute clarity the context of his question. as i begin to brace my thoughts, in a slow stutter, leaving my lips in mumbles; crumbling. it feels, like the shattering of sugared glass. a brutal, betrayal my words begin to expose.

I want to tell him everything. the broken inside of me; the parts of me so lost, in blind-chase for iron will. in an attempt to find the words, i feel. I embark on this pathless route, towards the faithful. loyalty, is important and respectable. nauseating guilt, rises to the surface. clouding the brims of glass cases, and staining areas; previously untouched, and hidden.



bits and bobs of year 8 in these unstructured sentences – which appear to have no head nor tail. i write them anyway, to re call while/and what i can.

fruit, almost too ripe to eat. the negative of a film slide once glowing beneath my fingers. greying, yellowing, losing it’s gloss upon my lightest touch. pointed toes, dancing under summer’s fine grained rain. the bedroom door, always left ajar. streaks of light leaking inward, towards the steel that hinged my bed frame. blood-red knit jumpers and teal pleated skirts, dressing myself and a long sigh leaving my lungs. yanking ripped black stockings, attempting to hide it’s pin-tiny holes beneath my uniform.

a breakfast of tea and dry multigrain toast – slathered with a thin layer of strawberry jam. no butter please. see you after school grandma, as i disappear out the wired fence. earl grey’s citrus after notes, lingering between my gums throughout morning math class. it’s recess, and we gather around the oval. there are all sorts of rolling, skipping, chasing, chattering, and giggling. the boys’ grey slacks, are soiled with with mud from skidding around the soccer field. heat from the mid day’s sun has warmed the prickly carpet of grass, and so we sit – crossing our thighs, stretching our tights out.

my classmates have lunch boxes, filled with salted crisps, candy fruit roll ups, white flesh nectarines and coral peaches. we sink our teeth into sweet, seasonal fruit. i wish quietly for the berry season, to fall upon us soon. we chitter and chatter about small, trivial things – like the athletic carnival approaching, or why amy had received an infringement. the long hand will soon reach out to 15, and the school bell will ring that same familiar, piercing tune. as it does, we leap up and race back to our homeroom

Fig #1

my dear fig,

it is cold in here. it’s not the kind of cold winter brought to us, back home. i do not see old oak trees, shedding their leaves and letting them loose for they are dead. it is a chill between my ribs. a sharp prick, like a knot tangled somewhere within my diaphragm, and i am choking.

i feel like somebody has snatched my lungs with their dirty hands, and is straining, and sieving whatever is left of it into fine ashes. sometimes, when i look up at the peeling ceiling above me, i see the shape of black moths. enlarging their speckled wings wider, broader. i wonder if they are preparing to take flight. but where would they go, fig? where could they possibly go?

the light peeking from under the cracks are losing it’s glow. this means it will soon be time for dinner, so i have to get ready. has ma moved away from that ol’ rocking chair? in quiet moments here, i can still hear it’s teak, creaking that painful sound.

please write me, and tell me all about your days. i want to hear everything you have to say – about your joy, and the mornings you can’t bear to lift your body from under your bedcovers.

I will write to you again, the soonest i can. fig, i know one day, i will be out of here . there will be better days ahead for us all. long, wilful days filled with piggy back rides, and passionfruit sorbet cones.

all my love and heart,


16th July

scattered leaves, as crossing paths. withering and worn from autumn’s weight. the summer’s dew fall, this evening is beautiful and all sorts of light. it is feathery, soft to touch, and crumbling at even a gentle wash of breeze. they fall unto moist, ripened fruit, soft and bruising – ready for harvest.

too quickly, they morph into powdery grains. this happens upon contact with the waxy surface of green leaves. these leaves, they crinkle at the edges, scooping inwards all that seeks an escape. a delicate curve, which nearly goes unnoticed.

i tell myself; to learn to be more like these brittle leaves. open, like the face of your palm. despite circumstances which bruise and batter you, hard and bitter to heave yourself off the ground, away from the gallows which are tempting and seen with wide open arms – ready to swallow you hole.

this is difficult, and this will reap a sort of strength within you. a form of courage, you’d think you never had, or lost somewhere along this forsaken path. one, seemingly unending, absent of any tell-tale sign nor arrows leading you away from danger. the words you see, do not look anything like the language you speak nor read.

Courage -this, will soon be found, maybe at the soles of your torn shoes. perhaps when you’re still by the fire, you will find it in the wooden twigs. these, which have brought to you this beautiful, raging light.

either way, the only way out is through

and on, and on – you lift your weary little feet.


all the shades of blue you can think of, washed right through me. some parts, i picked at with my raggedy fingers and then swallowed whole. tiny, shattered fragments, trapped in crevasses i never knew i embodied. perhaps some of the blue got caught on threads luring it away from the light. maybe it was my carelessness, did i brush it away too quickly, too soon? was it intentional or did my consciousness throw itself into an action, did it happen knowingly, or have we finally heard the singing birds, sing their twilight tune?