Stop Seducing Me

Stop seducing me.

Your gentle curves

The lingering touch of the tongue

The hush you brought

The memories it invokes

Words, will you please just 

stop seducing me.

Between the Tombstones

 You proposed to me in a cemetery.

The air was cold, the night was dark the moon was bright; and that was when you dropped down to your knee and said, “Marry me.” In your hand was a tiny ring, glimmering like the stars above us. Your fist clenched and unclenched. Your mouth was set in a straight line, as if you are nervous. But your eyes look… they look dead, as they always were.

I… didn’t know what to say. I really didn’t. I sat unmoving on one of the tombstones, my fingers twitching, my feet shuffling. I’ve always thought you’re like an on/off switch. You could flip from being the kindest, most gentle sweetheart to a roaring, livid typhoon in a matter of minutes. But no matter which side you are, your eyes always look lifeless… like the people who are buried here.  

“Hey,” you voiced out, getting up from your stance, “I asked you a question.”

“Marry me.” That wasn’t a question. That was a command. I wanted to voice out these thoughts, but decided against it when you grasped onto my wrist and clutched it tight. You pulled me to stand up. I tried to wrestle my hand away from you, but your grip was much too strong.

“Marry me,” you repeated, shoving the ring towards me. I cried out, struggling for my arm to be free, my voice seemed to echo in the quiet space. You let go on my wrist and clamped it against my mouth, shushing me. Your mouth was already twisted into an angry scowl. Yes, that’s why you liked it here; because it was quiet, because it was calming. And my struggling and screaming seemed to negate that.

“Please,” I pleaded, “Can we sit for a while? I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

That scowl on your lips vanished in a snap, and you gently took my hand in yours and we sat down, in front of a crumbling grave. The grass was cold and damp from the rain this evening, but you didn’t seem to mind. You were busy twirling the ring back and forth between hands.

You stayed quiet for a while, and for a moment, I could not discern which part of you is on the surface. It’s mentally, physically and emotionally draining, being with you, having to balance between the two sides of your personality spectrum. People wonder why I am still with you, but I don’t have to. I’m trapped, like a hopeless animal. One side loves me too much; your other side is possessive of me. Put those two sides together, and you are like a thick metal chain coiled around my throat.

Sometimes, that expression is meant literally. 

 I want to break free of this. The idea has consumed me for so long; so many of those endless, un-executed plans; so many escape routes... but I cannot run, not with these chains confining me. Not with you tracking my every move.

“I love you,” you said to me suddenly, and your voice sounds like you mean it, like you really do mean it. “I love you so, so much.” You take my hand and held it tightly, but lovingly. You looked at me and your dead eyes stared into mine so deeply, I had to look away. It feels like you are trying to reach out into my soul and suck out all the life in it.

I let my eyes stray towards the grave near us. The tombstone was cracked and jagged, and only a portion of the epitaph was left readable –

“rix Thews. 1914 - 19”

Your hand gently touched my chin, tenderly guiding me to look at you. “Won’t you please marry me?” You whisper my name, as softly as the breeze flowing through the weeping willow trees. “Don’t you love me back?”

I usually, automatically reply, “Yes, of course I do. I love you too,” but for some reason, today my voice did not leave my throat. I stayed quiet, my eyes still locked on to the decaying grave.

That was a mistake. You got angry, and you stood up, your fist coming down like a fast bullet and shot against my cheek. I was thrown back, my head hitting against the muddy ground. I yelped, when you positioned yourself above me and started to shake my shoulders. “I said that I love you!” you screamed, “Why don’t you love me back?!” My head bounced against the earth and everything rattled and spun and trembled.

“Stop!” I yelled, “Please stop. Please! I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” You stopped shaking me, and the world finally had its balance. Your grip loosened, and you relaxed yourself slightly, giving me a bit of space. “I love you too,” I said, desperately. “I love you too. I love you too.”

You got yourself off me, and I managed to push myself up into a sitting position. I was shaking, with fear and with alarm. You stared at me again and slowly, you reached out and –

I flinched, blocking your hand from touching me.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured. Your eyes set on the ground. “That got out of hand. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

I put a shaking hand onto my throbbing cheek. How many times had this happened? You blindly let your emotions overwhelm you – all for the tiniest, most insignificant thing – and then after you’ve hurt me, you apologize, again and again and again. I wanted to cry – it hurts so much – but I held back my tears. You hated to see me cry. You would beat me up until I stopped.

You continued apologizing, your hand now gently stroking my arm, and your eyes still refusing to meet mine, like you are ashamed to even look at me. A rush of anger suddenly coursed through me. How many years has this been like this? I can’t even remember the last time I could smile. Why do I have to suffer like this? What have I ever done to deserve such treatment?

“Hey,” you said, “You’ll forgive me, right? I’m sorry, I really am. Please forgive me.” I cursed at you in my head. Your voice was adding fuel to the blaze in my head. You yell at me, shake me, hit me and you expect me to forgive you just like that? Even more, you’re expecting me to marry you? This is absurd. This is ridiculous. This is –

“I will,” I said, “I’ll marry you.”

You were startled for a while, your brown eyes fixed onto my own. You could not believe it, can you? I repeated my decision, my voice calm and collected, “Yes, I will marry you, darling. Of course I will.”

And then I saw a smile on your lips. Such a garish thing to see: that stretch of the lips but with such a lifeless expression upon your face. I sat up properly and you came closer, and you sat down in front of me, sliding the ring through my finger.

I smiled at you, a simple turn of the lips. I pulled you close, tugging at the collar of your shirt. “I’m your wife now, darling,” I murmured. And then I kissed you, slowly at first, then madly and more passionate, like a teenager wild with hormones. And you responded, your hands already roving across my body.

My hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back onto the tombstone behind you. I straddled your body, my hands already snaking across your shoulders, your neck, your ears and through your hair. rix Thews will be our witness to this act.

Slowly massaging the back of your neck, I broke the kiss. Obscene, isn’t it?; to see those lust-filled eyes in such a place. I ran my fingers through your hair, so soft, so silky. “I love you so much,” I whisper close to you, that you could feel my breath on your lips, “I love you so, so, so much…”

Before you could take even a breath to reply, I grasped at the roots of your hair, clutching fistfuls of it in both my hands. Your eyes widened with shock and alarm. Your hands had just only started to move, just about to push at me, trying to get me off your body, but before you could do anything, I gripped your head and –

-- crack.

Red liquid started to trickle in rivulets from your head, down your neck and drip-drip-drip onto the tombstone, staining Thews with a garish red. Your body, now as lifeless as your eyes, lie on the tomb with such a frightful look on your face. How appealing.

You said you really liked cemeteries. You said you liked the silence and the peace here. And now you can rest here. Kind, isn’t it? But that’s what a wife does, she is kind to her husband. Shall I read out our vows now?

"To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, -- 

Till death us do part, darling."

And now we do.

END.

End notes: I haven't had a midnight rush of writing in a long, long time. 3 hours job, from 11PM to 2AM. I'll check up on the grammar and spelling when I'm more awake otz

Made in Ersatz

He was merely a regurgitator of thoughts;
never one to create his own.
There was no
d e p t h
Only an imitation of inspirations
in the neverending abyss
of his mind.

*

The seven greatest sins.
One of.
Envy.

But if you envy yourself
your own self
back then, when the world was still
whole

Is that called Nostalgia?

*

Think for yourself
Think for himself
That was Then.

And this is Now.

They have made him
like this
Nothing but a parroting of others
Willing to bend
like blades of glass
in the strong summer’s wind
To please others
To be a part of others
And to be
             Exactly
                         Like
                                 Them

Sama sahaja
Seperti sekeping kertas
Fotostat.
Seperti risalah
Untuk disogokkan kepada semua

Buy this from us!
Buy that!

We are correct!
We are bigger in number!

We are Truth.

Follow us.

And so he did.

And in the end
He was nothing more
But a cheap made in China
an Imitation

*

Muhasabah diri

*

Footnote: I'm really not good in kesusasteraan Bahasa Melayu :/ First bilingual piece. (Even though the BM part was only one stance.) Ehe.

Dreaming of Light

 Bits Before: This is my submission for the January issue of ISSUEMag. Their theme for that month is 'Light'

 

Dreaming of Light

Darkness consumes me.

For most of my life, I have been curbed in this room; this single solitary room, with nothing but sheer darkness accompanying me. Sometimes it feels overpowering here; I feel breathless, confined and terrified.

But no, I am not trapped, nor am I forced in here. No one is locking me in here to see me suffer and be tormented. The reason that I am in this room is because I am waiting. Yes, waiting… waiting for that moment when light will once again swathe itself in this dark and dreary place. Waiting… hoping… anticipating… everyday.

In this room there is no door and not a single window. The walls are painted with pink and yellow stripes. The floor, too, is pink, and its texture felt like someone had sprinkled glitter on it. A preposterous idea, really: glitter cannot shine in the dark. You need light to shine.

But there is one thing in this room that I think is sensible. There, upon one of the painted walls, hangs a mirror, framed with tiny rhinestones. I stand in front of it occasionally, just to pass the time.

Like the stagnant environment of this room, my reflection always stays the same. My ebony hair is always tied up in a top-knot, and my fringe lies perfectly in place, just above my eyebrows. I wear pastel pink tights, a cherry-coloured top, and a short stiff skirt made with layers of netting and pure white toe shoes. Have I always worn these? Have I ever seen myself in any other clothes than this outfit? I cannot remember.

In this room, there is hardly any sound. Occasionally, I hear the twittering of a nearby bird or the harmonious chirping of a cricket orchestra outside this room. They are always welcome for they are my much needed solace and my salvation from slowly losing my mind. Being in a box like this, put in the dark and silence… it can take a toll on your mind. The dark environment invites murky thoughts, weaving in and out of my mind, unlocking every worry, nipping at my nerves, prodding my agitation. What if my light never returns? What if she has forgotten about me? What if I am left here, alone, abandoned and forgotten, for all of eternity? The thought that I could be enveloped in darkness until the end of my days weakens my knees and fills my whole body with panic.

I shake my head to rid me of these thoughts. These figments of my mind does nothing but bring fear to myself. And when that happens, when overwhelming what if's override my  brain, when I am feeling desperately lonely, I stand in front of the mirror and sing songs to myself.

“Somewhere over the rainbow… skies are blue… and the dreams that you dare to dream… really do come true.”

Do dreams really come true? If I dared enough, would it really? I dream that my person would come by more frequently. Her visits are becoming less and less of late, and I fear the day when she does not come at all. Please, I whisper to the rhinestones, I hope that she will open up this room and let me see the light again.

I hear her talking sometimes, a high pitched tone resonating from a tiny crack on the upper part of the walls. My heart swells each time I hear her voice. My breathing starts to race. A gush of energy zaps within me. She is so close, so close.

My person talks in a lisp and she giggles a lot. During her visits, she would smile as she watches me. Her whole face illuminates, her eyes brighten and her cheeks colour. She is my light. I want to say something to her whenever she looks at me that way, but I know my voice could never reach her.

So I just smile back at her.

She seems to understand me and let out a small giggle.

Isn’t it amazing that all people smile in the same language?

I hear footsteps coming from that crack in the wall.

I could tell that there were friends accompanying her today. My heart skips a beat, as if it knows something that I do not. Maybe it would be today. Maybe today my person would unlock the opening in this room. Maybe today I would see sunlight once again.

When was the last time I had seen it? Last week? Last month? Last year? I do not know. Time stays still in the dark. Nevertheless, it does not matter, really; just as long as this day-- oh, please, please,please-- will be the day that she unlocks this room.

Anxiousness mixing with excitement, I skitter to my accustomed spot. I poise my arms above my head and stood on my tiptoes. Then I wait. I do nothing else but stay at my position and wait….

I hear muffled voices beyond these walls. I can feel my heart drumming, pounding heavily against my chest. I feel the ground beneath me shake. I do not breathe. I cannot breathe.

“Can I see this?” There is an unfamiliar voice talking to my person. My hands are icy cold, but my insides feel like it is on fire.

My person speaks this time, her lisp more evident today, “Ok! Shure! Let me open it for you!”

The ground beneath me shakes again. My heart thumps and thuds, my stomach churns and flips, my hands tremble and my feet shake.

I hear an audible click.

White light shines into my room, covering everything with its brightness, chasing away the darkness that previously lurks there. The pink and yellow stripes look bright and cheerful. The glitter on the floor shine like jewellery. The rhinestones on the mirror reflect the light and scatter it all around.

Everything looks like a dream.

‘Somewhere Above the Rainbow’ starts to play.

I start to twirl.

“She’s so pretty!”

“I know! She’s my ballerina, and no one else’s.”

“I’m asking for a music-box too for my birthday next month!”

Their eyes are shining bright and their lips are curved up in pure joy. I smile back at the two eight-year-olds. This is more than I could ever ask for. This is the dream that I never dared to dream; for not one, but two of them, entertained, bright and happy just by watching me perform my simple dance. The music continues to play, and I continue to twirl slowly in my own arc.

In that room, darkness can consume me. It will take me down slowly, nibbling away at my edges, gnawing at me until I slowly find myself spiraling into a lonely cloudy abyss. But I know there will always come a time when my person comes up and unlocks my room, and that is when my entire world is bright with a hundred rainbow colours. That is when I feel rejuvenated, replenished and as if I was reborn. And I know, nothing else could compare to that.

My eyes meet my person’s.

“I’m so glad you’re my ballerina…” she whispers, as if those words are only meant for me.

"I'm so glad you are my light."

My words are silent, but my smile is brilliantly bright.

And she smiles back at me in return.

Midnight Ruminations

Bits Before: One of those writings that just needed to be written, but has no specific direction.

Midnight Ruminations

She woke up. Midnight. Nothing seemed to stir her, but her eyes wouldn't close. Everything felt silent. Quiet. Too quiet. Too much.

She got out of bed, descending the stairs, quiet like a breath of air. Outside, she wanted to get outside.

No one seems to be awake, not even the dog. She took her jacket, and got out of the house. Barefoot.

The suburbs look utterly different at night, enclosed in white moonlight, enveloped in black darkness. The grounds shining with dew, giving an almost magical feel. The air, as cold as an autumn's evening, blew through her hair.

She took a step forward, onto the dewy ground. Moving slowly, then quickly, then slowly. Taking a step... Then two... Then three and four and five and six.

She reached her treehouse, high up in the lone tree of the backyard. Raised her hand, touched the woody texture of the plank.

She climbed.

Most obviously it was empty. But, unlike her room, it didn't have a lonely feeling. Instead she felt all at ease there.

And that ease made her decide.

This is where she'll sleep for the night.

- Early 2011 (?)

Onstage

Bits Before: All written in a span of a few minutes, separated by a few days, and coincidentally (as noted by Jazz) it's all about being onstage. Written in Kioku on one of those midnight clack-a-clackin'

Maskless

She never takes off her mask.

Her fellow dancers could never see her true face. Before the show, or even after, there was absolutely no emotion on her face. That mask was rigid and fixed upon her features. The only time that anyone could see a difference in her expression, was during showtime. But everyone knew it wasn’t a true smile, a real frown. As good as her expressions were, her co-dancers knew she doesn’t really feel.

But then she reaches home.

He would look away from the newspaper, the television or his dinner and looked at her; really looked at her, through that mask, through her thick skin, across her blue-green eyes and into her soul. And just with that soft smile of his, she let go.

She took of her mask.

Just for him. 

Self-Perceptions

She studied herself in the mirror.

What she saw was a ghastly-looking… thing. The skin on her face was as smooth as the surface of the moon, with a slightly crooked and much too large nose. Her mouth was oddly-shaped; her bottom lip was too protruding, as if a bee had stung her; her upper lip was shapeless, more of a line rather than a lip. Her eyes were a muddy brown; it hasn’t got the shine of the stars, nor a distinctive glow. Her eyebrows were bushy, unkempt and downright wild. Her hair was frizzy, untamed and she felt like a mongrel after a dunk in a murky pond then blowdried with a gigantic hairdryer.

Her thighs were too huge and flabby—they were like extra appendages by itself. Her chest was flat and unappealing; even a washing board had more sex appeal than her. Her stomach was grotesquely layered, like a cake baked by a failed pastry student. Her hands were too big and manly, like paddles for a creaky old boat. Her feet were too long, and by comparison, her legs were too short.

She felt disproportionate, gross, fat and most of all, ugly.

*

He studied her as she walked towards the stage.

Her strides were long and unwavered, like she had becomes used to these kind of things. Her gaze was fixed on the stage—soon to be her stage, he knew— not a single quiver of nervousness through her neves. He even caught an allusion of a smile against her lips, as if she was and always be ready for things like this. Her gait, quite clearly shouted ‘Confidence’.

She loved the stage; she loved speaking on the stage. She loved standing there, in front of the masses, delivering her speech, he could tell. He wondered, as she started her opening, if she knew some people were captivated by her eloquence of her speech.

Because he was enchanted by her.

She may not be the most beautiful girl he met, but by far, he knew she was one of the most genuine girls he had ever met. And that made her a million times better than the skinny, giggling shallow cheerleaders flouncing the hallways. Looks weren’t everything. In fact, looks are just an superficial exterior shell that will soon shrivel and disappear with time. She had something that will last a lifetime, and that was something those cheerleaders do not: alluring charisma. She was original, unique, one in a million.

She was herself.

And that made her beautiful.

 

All Dreams have Endings

She is a dancer. On the stage, she is anything she fancies to be— an egregious housewife, a beautiful queen, a white swan— anything. That is why she loves the stage; she loves pretending someone whom she is not. On the stage, anything can happen to her, any fantasy, any dream.

But soon, her fantasy will vanish into thin air, and she will plunge painfully into the cold harsh reality. She is just a mere girl. No longer did she have a ruling empire; no longer was she two-timing her husband with a dazzlingly gorgeous stranger; no longer a graceful bird across mirror-like lakes.

Because all dreams have endings.

And her mesmerizing fantasies are only two hours long.

 

 - 'Mid 2012