The love letter of a mild schizophrenic.

“No, it’s you. You make me miss you, like a person who’s just missed his flight, regretting his decision to linger over his morning coffee to think about his children.
You make me uncomfortable, like the tiny ball of threads at the edge of my socks; the more I scrunch my toes, the more it exists.
You make me feel like a traveller without an umbrella stranded in pouring rain and I’ve never enjoyed the rain, don’t you know that already?
You make me think like an addict on the lookout for new ways to get a fix for just one last time before I bid you goodbye.

But I keep coming back because;

You make me feel alive, like a dog that’s finally found the ball, like an adult who stumbles across a piece of her past that makes her feel as if her life has been worthwhile. Funny, how a single fragment of nostalgia can validate the past, when the past is where it stems from, how a thread from the days gone by is all that’s required to tie up the jigsaw that’s been baffling us since time began. A single piece of insignificance attains massive proportions of importance once we realise how slyly it has been evading our conscious minds. It has always been right there- under the dining table, or on the window sill, against the wall, under my nose and I didn’t look at it with the right question in my mind.
Will you be mine? No? It is quite all right. Not everything is for me to possess, especially not something that drenches me so completely and at the same time makes me feel icky about being so transparent.

You make me feel transparent, yes, like a window that has been washed and re – washed by someone with OCD. You make me feel transparent like a piece of polished glass that was meant to be a mirror,  but someone just forgot to put the layer of silver behind it and now, here I am, purposeless and letting everything pass through me, letting you see everything I feel and sense everything I watch. Am I over thinking?

Love is painful, like a hair thin needle passing through the tips of my finger all the way into my heart and with each beat, I die a little more with the pain knowing all the same, that if it doesn’t beat, I’d die anyway. So, I love you anyway. Now that I think of it, I’ve always been able to bear more pain than you. You’ve been weak on numerous occasions, turning to me for comfort and a cup of warm coffee with extra froth. You couldn’t even drink the coffee hot!

No, I wasn’t asking the right question earlier. It should not be whether you’d be mine. Instead, why should I be yours? I’ll tell you. When I was a little girl, I never did bite my nails or pick my nose. As I grew older, I didn’t smoke cigarettes and didn’t do drugs. I didn’t even rebel a lot. I just fell for you and you became my habit. You are the bad habit my mother had warned me against on the last day of high school. This is what I derive pleasure from. You. And that’s why I’ll be yours, that’s all. You’re my imagination. MY imagination. My IMAGINATION. You’re all mine to be with.”


Artwork: Christine Wu

Little Miss Muppet.

I miss you like a war veteran misses his limb, torn off and roughly patched, before the rescue team could arrive, or before he could even rise from unconsciousness. And now, he feels the phantom pain of loss every fucking night and just wishes he had known that this would be his fate. He wishes he had known so that he could have avoided the war altogether, not for a lack of patriotism but for the love for self. I wish I had known, so that I could have stopped before I fell for you.

I miss you like a the little girl who lost her teddy in the earthquake. She knows it’s around her, stuck underneath a huge block of concrete. She’s too afraid too explore alone, and no one helps her, least of all the teddy. Not a sign, no shout for help. It just sits there in the debris watching her eyes well up. Everyone thinks I cry because I’m weak but they don’t know how bloody strong the ones who lose are.

I miss you like a traveller misses the extra water she forgot to carry. With parched lips and cracked skin on her hands; each drop reminding her of how she wouldn’t live if she didn’t drink it, then again she would not live if she did. It’s like living with a rationed supply of what’s absolutely necessary. I had a finite supply of you, and the more I consumed the better I lived, the lesser we loved.

I miss you like an author misses ink when he’s finally got the idea that he’d been waiting for for months. The thoughts come pouring out of his mind with no where to assemble them, so he memorises them, word by word, paragraph by paragraph, repeating it to himself while searching for his quill and ink pot. I memorised your movements, your face, the lines around your lips when you smiled, the touch of your hand and the warmth from your body, but I can’t find the ink, I just, for the love of God, can’t.

And I’m afraid I’ll forget, and that with time you will become a vague memory of something that caused me pain, like a nagging in-grown nail that one learns to live with. We should not be this banal.

We were meant for greatness, like the war the veteran fought. We were meant to grow up together, like the child and her teddy. We were meant to be the thing of novels and fairy tales. We were, I swear.