You tell me about a dream you had last night;
How you couldn’t remember it,
But you woke up with a heavy feeling on your chest-
So I know it was about him.

Do you still think about him?
Sometimes… but only before I sleep.
Because you won’t remember it the next morning?
No, so maybe he’ll pass through into my dreams.

You say how whenever you’re in a crowd and you catch his scent,
Even now, you still stop to look around, convinced he’s near you.
I tell you thousands of men must wear that cologne.
I know, but still.

So I ask if you believe in parallel universes, in alternate endings.
Yes, I like to think that whatever I didn’t get in this universe exists somewhere in another.
Then there’s a universe out there where you and him are together?
Of course, of course,
Maybe there are multiple universes where we are together.
Do you ever wish that this was one of them?

But you don’t reply.
Instead, you tell me you think you are too fragile for happiness;
The exhilarating kind, the kind that shoots through like an electrical current-
There’s no other way to explain why I screw it up every time.

I ask if you are afraid of the next one.
Sometimes I think I don’t even want there to be a next one.
You say what you fear most now is to see him on the streets one day, his arm around someone else,
The smile on her face so familiar, it wears almost like home-
I was her once, you know,
I had her smile too.

And what would you say to him?
I wouldn’t.
I don’t know how to talk to him without accidentally letting him know I still love him.
But if he already knew?

In another universe, I might have been happy for you,
If only I could convince myself that you are not my perfect ending.



When I was born, my parents gave me a Chinese name,
One that wore like a Made in China label across my chest,
Which didn’t bother me
Until I realised the connotations ‘Made in China’ had in today’s society;
Until I realised how similar the oriental syllables of my name sounded to the ‘ching chongs’ sung mockingly on the school playground.

When people asked me where I was from, I told them,
New Zealand.
I was born and raised there,
Always making it a point to slip in my birth,
A way of compensation for this name that does not sit flush with their tongues,
As if spending anything less than 100% of my life there deems me too much of a foreigner,
Of an immigrant.

So later on, I decided to change my name to something simpler,
Something that didn’t play touch-and-go with peoples’ tongues;
Something that could be found in the dictionary.
I can’t tell you how happy it made me the day Microsoft Word finally stopped putting a red line under my name.

My mother always told me the most basic form of respect you can show someone
Is to learn how to pronounce their name, properly,
So I wonder what it says about me that I no longer speak the name I was given-
Pushed to the back of my throat, pushed off of my birth certificate,
Syllables I still can’t speak without tasting childhood racism.

It is hard to love a country
When you are reminded of racial slurs more than you are of its customs and traditions.
I am the girl who does not know how to talk about her culture without it becoming a rant about racism-
Being told to go home in a place I call home,
Disparaged about in complaints of stolen jobs and claims of rising house prices,
Like it is a crime to have fled for something better.

I want to tell them about my mother,
Who gave up leather heels
So her daughter could run barefoot on green grass;
Surrendered her voice
So her daughter could speak a new language,
Gave her a Chinese name
If for no other reason than as a souvenir
From a land she will never know well enough to call home.

So when they tell me my last name will always wear like a tail,
Following onto every form, every application,
Stamped across resumes and IDs,
The last bit of me caught in the bamboo ceiling,
Tell them this language that stumbles so hesitantly off of my tongue
Is spoken fluently by over one billion people.
I have worried so much about being marginalised
That I forget this culture I am trying to dissociate myself from
Is the one that propagated today’s 40 billion dollar tea industry,
And this country I don’t know how to appreciate
Was the one to give me the ink and paper I so cherish today.

Remind me then, before it is too late, that there is no shame in the menial jobs my parents worked to provide for a family;
Remind me it is not my place to apologise when people pronounce my name wrongly,
And please, remind me to ask my grandmother for her tea eggs recipe.

I changed my name from a Chinese one to an English one,
And now, I am praying that I have not lost my identity in the process.

The Written World

Does it ever scare you, how much you will never read?
Because I am sure that the answers to every question I’ve ever had
Have been written somewhere, sometime.
Maybe it’s in another language, or halfway across the Earth;
Maybe this world is even romantic enough for me to find it washed up in a bottle,
But surely, I am not alone in my thoughts.

How wonderful it is, the way my mind doesn’t know what to do with written words
Except read them;
Read them, with the well-practiced voice in my head.
But there are people out there who can speak their name
And not recognise it on paper.
How strange it must be, to look at the English language and see nothing but whimsical doodles,
Mistake letters of the alphabet for odd lines and squiggles.
What a privilege it is, for me to read as easy as it is to speak,
Slide through sentences like skating across ice.

You have the power to understand scientific journals, great literature,
Yet you squander it by scrolling through social media.
Fashion trends and diet crazes,
Nourishing your body instead of your mind,
Replacing words you’ve learnt with rows of emojis.
How many times have you reflexively written ‘student’ under occupation
Without realising how fortunate you are to have an education?

These nights, I’ve been reading the dictionary,
Wrapping my tongue around new words
And gifting them to my vocabulary.
I nurture my lexicon like a cherished plant,
Crafting sentences to use words I’ve missed seeing;
Writing it down on paper
Just to feel my pen curl around these letters like a long-lost friend.
The ink gives itself in to the paper,
I give myself in to words-
They are an extension of my fingers.

So tell me that one day, I will find something-
A person who words cannot describe, maybe,
Or a question words cannot answer,
When I’ll finally be lost for words-
Naked, vulnerable.
Let me know that it will be frightening;
Of course it will be, when I’ve built a life around words.
And when I ask for the solution,
Tell me it lies not within the pages,
But written in the stars.


For Sarah (happy birthday!)

I wonder if you are looking out your window tonight
At a skyline of unfamiliar silhouettes,
Buildings so tall even the stars can’t help but bend down and kiss them.
How utterly strange it is, for you to be so far away,
For us to breathe the same air, yet see different skies.
The constellations must have changed there-
I wonder if you can still see the Southern Cross.

This is the city we grew up with in movies and magazines,
Splattered across social media and travel ads,
Landmarks so iconic we knew them almost better than the ones at home.
The name tapping against the backs of our teeth,
As our tongues fumbled around an accent too-posh-
I wonder if you are used to it yet.

I imagine you walking Piccadilly at night, among flashing billboards
That never quite dazzle the same way at noon-
This is a kind of life that awakens only once the sun has fallen asleep.
These streets are so alive-
I wonder if you’ve seen them empty,
I wonder if you’ve heard them silent.
Two days it took for me to fall in love with this city,
I wonder if you are in love.

There is another terrorist attack on the other side of the world this morning
(Eight dead, another forty eight injured),
And mixed in with the sadness and sympathy
Is an unfamiliar sense of anxiety.
I am so not used to having to pray for someone
That I almost forget to ask if you’re ok.
I wonder if, during times like these,
You wish it didn’t take you at least two plane rides to come home.

Now you fall asleep the same time my alarm rings.
I must admit, it is kind of wonderful, this cycle,
The way one of us is always awake, as if we’re keeping watch-
Not afraid of losing sleep, but scared of missing out.
Still now, I wonder if you’ve settled in,
Because I hope you like it there.
I hope you have found a home there.

Ode to Daughter

Dear daughter,
You were born a child of the universe.
You entered battling meteors on the backs of shooting stars,
Found your voice alongside thunderstorms and earthquakes,
Wrote your name into a constellation, and carved out your own orbits.
You can paint the entire galaxy from memory,
So don’t you dare tell me you are afraid of glass, because

Dear daughter,
Sometimes, the world will rob you of what is rightfully yours,
But that is why you were given legs, so you can chase after adversity the way lightening chases darkness.
I want you to be like the lakes that shine, so stubbornly blue, even when the sky is grey.
You are not to be silenced by full stops, expiry dates,
You are no contortionist, you were never able to fit into boxes.
Your voice is not laundry that can be folded and put away.
Never apologise for being right, for knowing,
But remember to always forgive those brave enough to admit their mistakes.

Dear daughter,
Your skin is soft, and it will dent easily from the imprints of those you encounter,
And you’ll wonder why feelings seem to enter easier and linger longer in your body than they do in that of others,
But never scold yourself for these emotions that flood, no;
Others will tell you your skin is too thin, they will call your heart fragile,
They will talk about stoicism like it is a victory,
But oh, do they know how wonderful it is to feel so much, to feel so alive?
To feel is not to suffer, to feel is not to surrender, so

Dear daughter,
You can cry yourself to sleep if you’re upset, but don’t you ever fall asleep to the hunger of wanting more;
The dreams you satiate yourself through will never follow into reality.
Sometimes, it is as simple as looking down at your arms and realising
The wings you were searching for have been there all along.
And when you finally set flight, you will learn that there is no such thing as falling,
Not when every cell in your body is praying for the contrary.

And dear daughter,
Please, do not ever
Mistake blue eyes for the sky, or golden hair for the sun,
Believe for a second that one person is enough to be your entire world.
Never be ashamed of standing closer to the stars than them;
Remember, “you aren’t like other girls” is not always a compliment,
The word ‘different’ is not synonymous with ‘better’.

So when you are soaring through the skies and a knight in shining armour holds out his hand,
Be sure to tell him thanks, but no thanks-
“I am not a damsel in distress.”


And even afterwards, you had a way of leaking back into my life,
Seeping into my words like a broken fountain pen.
No, perhaps ‘flooding’ is more appropriate, the way
You exuded my mind as a swarm of writing prompts,
Sweeping through, making a home in all my emptiness,
Romanticising the way loneliness wrapped its tendrils around my neck;
Mascara-smudged eyes, ice-cream binge clichés,
Offering a vaccine to writer’s block
(How could a writer, of all people, refuse that?)

But of all the words that have slipped from my mouth,
Of all the words that you so unknowingly stained,
These will be the last, I am sure of it,
For there must be lighter things to write about
Than bleeding hearts and charred souls.

I am finally sick of the forced giggles and loud voices that
Push through these lips – my lips, that walked into other lips the way you walked out of my life,
Desperate to show you I’d moved on already, as if it were a key competition;
Fighting through to the finals, only to find you never even bothered to register.

How pathetic it was, for me to enthuse about letting go,
Only to spend more nights writing about you
(If you can’t beat the pain, embellish it).
A hundred and twenty five hurricanes later, and I finally realise
You can never truly be free from something you’ve glued your palms onto-
Even if you loosen your fingers, pull away, you’re still holding on.
But the rain has finally ceased, so let the sun-rays melt this glue.
Don’t you worry about me losing my grip-
My hands have finally found other things they want to reach for.

There may be less to write about now,
But at least I have nothing left to prove;
Not to myself, and especially not to you.
At least I’ve finally reclaimed my life,
No longer living an existence designed to make you miss me.
At last I can laugh today, properly, without thinking to myself
“See, I can be happy without you.”

And so now I sleep with the windows open,
Wearing nothing but filtered moonlight-
Gentle curves and soft skin against ivory satin sheets;
This body is mine, mine alone.
It is a liberating moment to realise
I belong to no one.

Fault Lines

It is a fault of yours
To fumble with words.
Search for hours, and emerge purely with silence;
Pick heavenly roses, but present them only when they have wilted.
Somewhere beneath your tongue, there is a forgotten dictionary.

It is a fault of this language
To package acidic words so they taste like caramel;
Dipped in something sweet, but filled with liquid white lies.
There are too many synonyms for ‘beautiful’-
You are not as ideal as they write you.

It is a fault of a writer
To have surrendered to words,
To cradle them like the last flowers of spring,
Swallow them like ambrosia even if they taste untrue,
Reluctant to squander even those that pierce her throat.

You tell me there’s a word for the way my hand fits into yours,
For the way I look on lazy Sunday mornings.
‘Perfect’, you say,
You’re perfect.
But my fingers have almost forgotten the touch of your skin,
And you have not seen me for the last 47 Sundays.

Say sorry all you want, but make the same mistakes over and over and you’ll never stop apologising
(Just ask Sisyphus).
Darling, aren’t you sick of asking for forgiveness? Don’t the words grind into your palate by now?

I’m starting to wonder how you came to be the one to teach me heartbreak poetry.
Tell me, is there a word that can bridge this distance between us?