This post will be raw, without any sugarcoating or romanticizing. Because nothing is pretty, and it is tough. It is tough to sort out the cries inside of me, and it is tougher feeling vulnerable.

I’m sitting in a corner, in my hoodie and sweatpants, typing this. I absolutely cannot stand the hot weather, but I’m covered from head to toe today. My brother took a look at me before I left the house, “this sweatpants look a little big on you, makes you look… fat.” It’s okay because I’m used to hearing things like that. My mum would tell me my shorts don’t look good on me because people can see my fat thighs with stretch marks, cellulite, I don’t know. When I wear fitting clothes, my parents will take a look at me and say “fei it’s time to lose some weight”, “Don’t wear clothes like this, people can see your rolls” and then laugh it off. When I wear loose shirts, they’ll say that it “looks big on me and makes me look big.” I guess it’s just because I’m not skinny and pretty enough to pull anything off, that’s the real problem, isn’t it? I guess skinnier and prettier girls will be able to pull anything off no matter what they wear. Too bad I’m never one of them.

Today, I feel especially uneasy in my own skin. Today, I feel especially ugly. Today, I hate my reflection in the mirror as much as any other days. I feel fat, ugly, helpless. I’m tired of counting calories. I’m tired of sticking my fingers down my throat every time I finish binging. I’m tired of the bad taste in my mouth and the bloodshot eyes along with a runny nose after each episode. I hate the aching in my knuckles and the sound of running water splashing in the sink. It’s been 5 years and it has never stopped haunting me. I hate the fact that it’s been carved into me and how my reflection mocks me every time I look at it. I put on make-up to mask my vessels under my eyes, my fucking eyebags, but you tell me I look better without make-up. And then you criticize me before my make-up, what the fuck do you want? Maybe people feel that it’s harmless pointing out insecurities people have. I’m aware of my flaws and I hate them. I hate my rough, thinning hair that’s not smooth and feminine enough, and I hate that I can never be “skinny enough”. I remember when my ex told me to lose weight because I’m not skinny and pretty enough for him — how he bought me slimming pills and told me to weigh myself in front of him everytime he saw me. I remember how he showed me the girl’s body size chart and told me to become the one who he thought was “sexiest”.

I remember how he cheated on me with my best friend because I didn’t want to have sex with him. I remember how other guys try to do inappropriate things to me and then calling me a slut. I remember those who tried to get into my pants and those who spread rumours about me. I remember those who pretended to help but were actually just like the rest of them, and worse. I hate myself for letting them think that way, hate myself for not being able to stand my ground and say “fuck off”. I hate myself for caring about how they felt, hate myself for trying to be nice which in their eyes, was simply what a slut does. I hate myself that I let them see me as “easy”, hate myself because I care too much about their feelings when they’re irrelevant.  I hate myself for not being able to protect myself well enough, hate myself for learning to say “fuck off” too late.

Today is the day I avoid storefronts and reflections from buses. I’m not feeling sorry for myself nor am I calling for help. It’s just too frustrating to keep all these bottled inside of me, knowing that there is absolutely no one who will truly understand. I just hope that one day I’ll feel prettier and get away from my insecurities, but that day doesn’t feel that close to me right now.



Suddenly the taste of alcohol doesn’t taste as enticing anymore.

Maybe that’s because I’m slowly forgetting how to miss you.


She watched,
the bulb disintegrate from his cigarette
and fall to the ground,
The ashes evoking her of what she’d become–
Yet the debris of her stood its ground
behind the demeanour of a broken being.

She remembered,
tracing the sparkles in the night sky
only to find out it made no fucking sense,
The constellation of her feelings wired a huge mess–
And she could only admire and wish
that she was half as numb as the stars were.

She breathed,
observing his breath condense into the cold air,
morphing into clouds of temporary ecstasy
Replacing each puff with every breath–
If only she could be less disposable,
and at the same time look so
beautifully dangerous.

She loved,
brushing against his warm velvet skin
that drips intensely of colours and caution,
His touch lit up all voids inside of her–
only to steal every remaining light left from her
And again she would cut herself open,
she knew she should have read the warning anyway–
He wouldn’t know
that the hopeless romantic already knew
that he was
just another robber like everyone else.

Fuck the lights

I don’t know what everyone is smiling at. Can I stop smiling? I’m tired.

I want to cry.

Why the fuck do I even care?

I don’t know why this always happens. Maybe the tears will melt into the dark and everything will be okay. The rain will be a good cover up too. But then again I don’t want to mess up my make-up.

I fucked up my mascara. Fuck.

I fucking hate the lights.

I fucking hate myself.

Overwhelming. I just want to be alone. But I’m so sick of myself. What a fucking irony.

Can I disappear? I know I can’t. Well screw this.

For a quick moment I imagined how it’ll be if I accidentally fell off to the tracks. Will there be tears? Will there be screams? Will it be worth? Will the lights be blinding?

Why the fuck do people smile? I don’t see the humour. Yet everything now is just a big fucking joke.

I just want to feel the hot mess down my throat. I know it won’t numb any pain. But fuck it. What pain anyway?

I don’t even fucking know.