1 Year AD/BD

the only time i ever saw him happy
was in the ocean
waves gently tucking
white cotton around his knees
nudging his spirit
back into his body
the universe folding in on itself
hiding in the bags under my eyes
and banana silk pyjamas
i have been chasing
a specific version of happiness
as though no other is possible
except the breaking that comes
with the pursuit
of something so beautiful
it will never exist again
the universe folding in on itself
a moment of self-recognition
grief lashing roots
down the sides of my nose
planting itself
at the corners of my mouth
blowing kisses
while bumping into trash cans
eating berries
offered by privately-owned trees
letting fingertips hover
after holding hands
and fighting cishets
a specific version of happiness
expanding with the sound of a trumpet
played by another who shares the same heart
reverb gently tucking
black cotton around my ankles
easing the fear out of my body
the universe folding in on itself
i have been chasing

by Mina Shanmugalingam

Blood Rituals

Gather this tide of skirts,
streaming thighs, restless hips,
cotton blotched into maps,
drip-drip of first arrivals,
coming, going, staining, crossing,
striding in endless motions,
in whispers, in warnings, in shrieks
hidden behind bathroom doors.

A red seam pools at the ankle,
a stubborn stain snaking through linen,
the body spilling its hidden harvest,
a metal tang of rusted iron,
threading through seams,
of drowned dark petals.

This is the ritual:
to bleed and keep moving,
to mark and be scrubbed clean,
to carry the sea inside,
month after month,
both burden and blessing.

by Salmah Salam

Becoming

You have ripened—
So unexpectedly,
So languidly.
Since the cold September,
that birthed your new tongue.

You.
Figs swollen past sweetness,
your skin splits, seeds spill,
and scatter,
into stark outlines
Of becoming.

by Salmah Salam

Failed communion

A single crumb falls in between the crevices of my breast
Before it meets its final fate on my kitchen floor; 
The annoyance of the loss of potential sustenance
Will soon be forgotten during a 2am mania haze 
Where I’ll finally sweep the floors,
Dumping that crumb, now covered by dust and purple onion skins, 
Into the garbage bin filled two days past when it should’ve been emptied;
All for its contents to eventually 
be burned and buried underneath 
the roads that I will travel along to my death.

by Naa Asheley Ashitey

Loss was found

You would have thought with something missing,

things would feel lighter.

I mean, yes, I lost weight,

But I had more on my mind.

You would never have seen me leaving my house

without my headphones on.

Because I knew only music could drown out 

the wind whispering your name. 

And I didn’t want to hear it.

In every 'how have you been?' and 'how is everything going?',

I experimented with how far I could stretch my answer from reality.

I didn’t want to say my time was being taken up attending

the same funeral of us, a hundred times a day.

That I was and still was the only visitor.

I kept people at a distance, 

I didn’t want anyone too close.

Because I didn’t want people to catch

the smell of death from my clothes.

There were two of us but only one was mourning.

Each morning, I awoke in a cemetery,

trying to bury all of the 'what ifs' under the surface.

But every tear I shed watered the dead.

into full bloom and more grief resurfaced. 

So I tried sowing new seeds. I really did.

Wishing for a new garden to grow.

I would stand there weeping into my watering can.

But I realised my watering can can’t

grow miracles, though.

I thought I could gain muscle trying to bench my thoughts.

But the only thing I strengthened was my muscle memory.

I could lift ten extra kilograms at the gym much easier. 

Because nothing was heavier than my thoughts.

To lighten my load I was told to focus on myself so

I would race laps in the park every day by myself.

And I would still come second.

I was doing everything I could,

But I could never outrun my grief.

And it brought me no relief to see

The seesaw we used to play on and so perfectly balance.

I should have known you were leaving forever

because your absence nailed my side so far into the ground.

I was so low I could only look upwards.

You were so high, you didn’t look down.

Or once, when you did, you couldn’t hide your smile from the sky. 

I didn’t need to be reminded that you were doing better without me.

So I unsynced our pictures from the cloud.

But it still rained and it poured.

I stopped using umbrellas because

the rain followed me closer

than my own shadow did.

So I unfollowed joy and love on social media. 

I would scroll past happiness and delight.

I would double tap on sorrow

I would refresh but be stuck on

the same loading screen every night.

And I’m silly in that I would fall asleep

watching it load only to wake up to

“page still not found”.

You would think with something missing,

things would feel lighter.

I mean, yes, I lost weight.

But I had more on my mind.

by Kavita K. Hansla

Watch Kavita’s reading here.

As this letter of autumn leaves

As this letter of autumn leaves

I wrote this with all intention, knowing it would find you.

Consider this hand-delivered, without stamp or address. 

For here it sits in your hand, and I hope the message envelops you. 

I sense the unyielding strength of your core. Without words, 

your grooves expose the tales of a thousand wretched storms. 

Yet against all odds, you stand unwavering, even. 

And all your ambition branches far out beyond what gives you shade. 

But separate from you, are the leaves. 

And I see you are learning that leaves are as beautiful as they are temporary. 

Everything that isn't you is the seasons. 

You can love any and all of your leaves so much. 

But even your favourite leaves will come and leave with each season. 

But please know, none were meant to stay. 

And I hope it is through watching your own leaves fall. 

That the message lands, that you don't need to fall with them. 

Instead, you let them teach you how to let go. 

A tree without leaves is no less than a tree with, you know. 

And leaves fall to pave paths for new growth. 

It is only a matter of time until you sprout new leaves again. 

And you will adore and mourn them through every season. 

My wish for you is that you always remember you are the tree. 

The one thing in this life you need to keep coming back to. 

It will be the greatest thing you ever did. 

For in your search for what is constant, you have always been it. 

And like this paper derived from fibres of trees, 

this message embodies the essence of you.

So as this letter of autumn leaves, 

I hope to return you to you.

by Kavita K. Hansla

The Secret of the Ink Pot

The Secret of the Ink Pot

You dropped me into a pot of ink, with such impact 

that it spilled out all my secrets. That stained and bled

through every fresh canvas a new day would offer me. 

I left traces on everything I touched because my 

fingertips were smudged

with darkness. 

I began treading ink after hearing it try to convince my lungs,

it was harmless. 

To such depths of nothing made me realise the colour black

isn't even the darkest. 

The ink trudged along with me through every landscape

that I tried to escape to. 

My footprints would tattoo all moments of joy,

in a way that I would never choose to. 

Though, it took me a while to realise, the ink 

that once threatened to drown me 

was actually filling all of the empty space inside. 

Fortifying me and making me whole. 

Ink became the bridge I would draw 

between silence and expression. 

I learnt that living through hell is but a reminder,

that there must be a heaven. 

And ink became a badge of honour 

for the reputation you couldn't stain. 

This pot of ink was not my downfall, 

it was simply my awakening.

by Kavita K. Hansla

You're not asking for the moon

You're not asking for the moon

However the moon shows up,
it is always seen as "the moon". 
Whether it appears as whole, 
as half, 
as less than half, 
or barely at all - 
the moon is no less "the moon". 

So why, through all your phases,
do you think you're any less you?

by Kavita K. Hansla

◆∈∈▼◆■︿∑∑

My gene dells in poetry.
only poetry is the evidence that
i absolutely exist,
only poetry is the significance that
i was born,
and
only poetry is complete me who
no one can break.

by Yuu Ikeda

Untitled

I find it hardest to write 
When I’m happy 
When my emotions are stable
Chemically balancing 
Stimuli vanishing 
Feeling much less like therapy 
And more of a challenge
One comprehensive mountain climb 
Melancholy is a tonic 
That only the sad comfortably stomach 
Makes the jolly man vomit 
Maybe it has to be this way 
Maybe I must 
Absorb myself 
In it’s state
Maybe by ruminating 
Too hard 
The happy would erase 
I fear to dissect it 
Lest it turns to dust 
And I adore it too late 
There’s a transparency 
In those windows 
Riddled with mildew 
That the happy glass
Doesn’t have
It I struggle to see through 
I wish to able to to find 
Inspiration 
In sunshine 
In rainbows
In faerie gardens 
In flowers that sit in pretty rows 
But I only know how to really
Talk 
Speak 
Voice 
Debate 
Pain
And how it freezes you 
How the downs in life 
Reduce you
Like a jeu 
But produce the best in you 
Too
I want to swing from rafters with glee
And write about these things 
Unapologetically
But the human in me 
Sees happy as 
Defeat 
As far too neat 
Not abstract enough 
Not deep 
When I’m happy
My grasp on language 
Simply retreats 
Maybe I’m stuck believing 
Torment is living 
And contentment is giving in
And that’s why these happy states 
I don’t stay in 
I can’t hold my happy too tight
Or like a butterfly it just might 
Fly far far away
Out of my sight 
So I keep worry to the side of me
And despair in my pocket 
So that when I’ve lost it
That joy
That harmony 
When from it I’ve been accosted 
I can slot right back in 
Back into the gloomy
Semantic glory 
I know best 
The safest kind of nest 
And lay my writers block
To rest

by Forest

If/Make It With You

i replay the record till it scratches and skips, 
i keep repeating the same old verses even when
they start to stink; it is good enough that the smell
is there to remind me of you, and every inch of
your stupidity that once endeared you to me, 
somehow i do not have it anymore and i can 
only find it in shallow lyrics where i pretend there
is a better story than this, some sort of alternative, but
i just know i would have made all the same mistakes 
only to swear by my innocence—if i bleed white
then so be it, it is proof only to me and no one else; 
if i bleed red, then let yourself be marooned by me, 
when i know i could launch more than a thousand ships. 

track 1: accidentally in love - counting crows
i secretly grew tired of this song, and now i resent it 
even more, even more now that it only reminds me of 
you—it uses the word “love” every other verse and no 
longer do i want to associate you with that grotesque 
word, no longer do i want to know what you do or who
you’re with, but freedom is cruel now that i have it, 
and so were you when i had you, i do not want for any
more in this world, i take everything i own for granted. 

track 2: kiss me - sixpence none the richer
it is better, a source of relief even, that this is one track
that does not bring back the thought of you, i think of
autumns i have never visited, and leaves that do not fall, 
i am alone and none the lonelier, but i have friends that
i dial up for days and nights and answer to every call; 
there is too much love that once i had for you, that now
is just all up for fifty per cent off, i let your love go; it 
wasn’t my call to make but i do not ask for any payback.

by Leya Kuan

The Fall of 2024

Today I tried to write again, but my mind is empty and 
So are my hands; I have spent them all away, on 
Blouses just to prove that I lost a couple of pounds,
And bits of some things to show myself that I have more
Than a couple of pounds—my mind is far, far away, and
Yet—but—so—and—half of me has been here to bear
Witness, to bare what is left of me before it all chips 
Away, a way to remember the words I have used only to
Pour the ink all over the curves and blur it all back 
Together, but at least this is what remains, and what is 
Left of me, the last bit of common sense that I will 
Never use, from the beginning to the present end. 

I am still young, I tell myself, and there is still so much 
Time left in the world, all of it, time enough for only
you and I, in the lateness of the morning and the early
Beginnings at the end of the year, but every candidate For my affections brings this old feeling that only you
Bore, by land or by sea, whatever it is, there is still 
Distance by heart or by proximity, so I keep ringing up 
The couriers and reminding them of my free shipping, 
I keep calling you up so you know that I am living, who
Cares to live if it is not for your love? Spill that apathy 
From my lips to your faithless country, spit that venom
From your faith to my fate, let it go every time we touch. 

Today I remind myself that I am a writer so I must write 
But I have given all my words away to the garden of 
False fairies and godless gnomes, I claim it’s charity but
I truly only need a facade of generosity for my vanity, 
I let myself believe that I have kindness in my heart, so
I may put myself to sleep in the belief of my purity, 
You have robbed me of my sentences to string you 
Along, now there are no more words to fill up a meaning
And there are no more syllables to make up your song, 
You have judged to sentence me to a silent misery, 
If there is some regret in you, may it chain you to every 
Inch of the servitude that I once volunteered for you. 

I carry with me my words and our noises, I recite it with
A couple thousands steps along the way to put me in 
God’s way and to my own ease—if physicality is your
Intimacy then you must be as pure as the Madonna, if 
Words are my intimacy then I should be as filthy as any
Other smut on a whore, but who are you to fall to your 
Feet and declare yourself my friend? And who is he to 
Turn on his feet and become a heartless foe? Call it 
What you want—whatever lies you may tell yourself 
And wherever your heart belongs, whoever you are 
Holding me now in your hand, I know a thousand 
Poems cannot save me anymore, more than ever before. 

by Leya Kuan

A Writer’s Prescription for Unexplained Aches

A large dose of words—
by candlelight and in patterned socks/ to be
found on a shelf within a strong spine/ or passed
through lips/ in song/ chant/ prayer/ apology/ in a 
coffee shop with your friend with kind eyes/ cradled
in your lover’s arms/ a large dose of words/ large enough 
to fill pages in blue ink/ or overflow your kitchen sink/ repeat 
until you see emerald grass and a sapphire sky/ until the night 
air is not hungry for your blood/ repeat until the weight of the 
world lifts from the small of your back/ until each word lays
a brick for the house you needed since your bones were young

by Chandra Persaud

Breaded Chicken Fillet with Egg Recipe

Trigger warnings: implied eating disorder, body shaming 

—

One: boneless chicken breast–spineless as you are. You laugh at the shadow of my reflection and yet you loathe yours; you simply cannot bear the sight of your own face dawning upon you. How does it feel to be wretchedly cruel, to the world and to yourself? Two: marinate Italian style. Ride the yacht you cannot afford and come home to your two-storey apartment paid with dirty money. Speak a language you cannot fathom. Call me when you need me, between the lines of “what does it all mean?”; let me ask you the same: how did you mean it all? Ridicule me, please, for not believing in a god that let your most beloved pass as though their existence were disposable. How can you live with it all, carrying the weight of your words like twisting a dull knife pierced into my wound? I make it all about me, don’t I? (I do, I do, I do) If I make this about you, will you forgive me for my untamed wit they all keep chasing me for? Three: eggs. The first crack in the shell is in the image of you crumbling beneath the lightest of pressure. The unfamiliar has always been daunting, hasn’t it? I wonder if you think of me now, between the lines of the poem you so desperately try to comprehend, yet it remains unbeknownst to you. Where has your brain gone amidst all the facade that is your beauty? Does it hide beneath all your grandeur? Four: garlic. Freshly minced to perfection. You do have an eye for it, don’t you? Every crevice of my existence is a sin for yours. All that I am was a pitiful cry for help; the girl meant to be at the back of the photograph—were their preening eyes enough to make a saint out of you? Serve on a sizzling plate. Hot and scorching and burning through your bones. It was debilitating to be known by you. The love I know of now at the touch of my fingertips is a far cry from the grasp of your cold hands. Let me devour what I deserve for it is all mine—none of the food in your mouth is ever worth digesting. I am sorry for choking you with a love you never deserved. I have learned my lesson to not swallow things I cannot fit in the roof of my mouth. All of it now is teeth and gums–a vision you would surely die for. Wallow in the limelight of my glory, would you? The pleasure is all mine.

by Alistair Gaunt

Untitled

1001 lives lived in the span of a sleepless night.

Las musas me susurran
confunden mis oídos
por sus trompetas.

by Kamilah Mercedes Valentín Díaz

Happiness Hurts

They say happiness feels like the warmth of daylight seeping in through your skin. Embracing your bones, and turning your heart into a mushy puddle of delight.

They say happiness is yellow.
Bubbly and bright.

They say happiness smells like cookies and cupcakes, and a plethora of flowers blooming between the butterflies in your stomach.

They say happiness is the laughter and smiles you share with your loved ones.

Lingering. Heartwarming.


If so…

Then I never knew this thing called happiness at all.


To me, happiness felt like a dream trapped in a distant screen.

Like the reflection of the moon upon the still water surface.

Visible.
Impossible to touch.


Like scraping a rock with your nails desperate to feel.

Close.
Impossible to accomplish.


You will only be left with blood and mangled fingers.

You will only be left with an aching heart and a hollow chest.


How wretched.


It was merely another thing outside my grasp.


Exist to tempt.
Impossible to get.

by MG

Doll House

Did you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of teas and dolls and friends only you can see?

To be someone you're not.

A princess, perhaps.
Hosting tea parties.
A sovereign over the imaginary.


Playing with puppets.
Our will is their will.

More sugar, more tea.
The party isn't over until I say it's over.

Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
You enjoy this as much as I.
Even when you do not.



How many of you realise you're the puppet now?



Do you enjoy sitting around with empty cups of dreams and promises and friends only benefits hold near?

To be someone you're not.

A commoner, perhaps.
Working towards a goal.
A glorified slave of the unseen.


Playing with your life.
Their will is your will.


More trials, more suffering.
The play isn't over until they say it's over.


Smile, smile.
Be grateful.
We enjoy this as much as they.
Even when we do not.


How many of us realise we're just dolls in a house?

Shh…
silent.

We’re not supposed to see beyond the stage.

Do not question.

Do not seek.


Smile, smile.
My dear.

by MG

The Things We Bury

Hold it!

Bury it deep inside the earth at the back of your house.

The ground will welcome it, wrap it in its moist embrace,

in soil made wet by the rain.

Work quickly!

They are only out for a moment, you may use your hands if you want,

When you are done, retreat from the sunlight.

No!

Don’t turn your back to it…back away, nimble.

You may breathe once you reach safety.

Now my Dear, you are clean.

by Danielle Nickaf

peppermint

melancholy lingers
like the itch that oppresses dry skin.

christmas spirit is the air,
so there’s no time for frowns and despair,
only smiles and jolly tones,
exhibits throughout the year that are rare.

yet, i can’t help but feel sad,
drown in the lingering melancholy.
for someone like me,
i guess it’s inevitable, really.

i suck on one of those peppermint mints,
while everyone else has fun,
the little aftertaste burns a cut that’s on my gum.
i whimper,
and the melancholy i feel deepens.

sadness is inevitable during the holidays, i told you.

by M.S. Blues

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,
They keep me safe here
It’s not worth knowing that
They’ve chopped my hair
I look like a boy, now
But
My flesh is fragile, still
At night
The cold water freezes my nerves
Do I have a choice of not washing their dishes?
Had not my bruises remained raw,
I’d have waited to write
Their ointments are
Guarded by grandeur
Even when my blood
Shrieks out of my skin
Even after all,
They keep me safe here

by Timsal Fatima