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Sarah, 18, Singapore
(click the flower above for older entries)
Twitter: @sarahbananachan
Instagram: hisarahnademe
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Thoughts
Monday, August 22, 2016 || 11:16 PM
A sense of foreboding
twitching in my palms:
eager flashes of white-hot
dread, settling there —
nestled between both
the good and bad moments.
I cannot house these feelings.
Fear #6
Saturday, April 23, 2016 || 9:37 PM
The fall from grace, the shortened high; the precarious space, the impending sigh
Salt and burn
Wednesday, April 20, 2016 || 6:58 PM
I feel like my insides are eroding from the outside in — specks off me chipping off bit by bit until there is nothing left, until I am left hollowed into ashy remains. The familiar burn in my chest leads my destruction; a driving force pulling me down to my grave.
Day by day by day by day. Each moment stops being something fleeting and starts being something so real and present that I am forced to feel every speck of its duress. How is something able to make you feel both hot and cold at the same time?
An important question that I have allowed myself to choose the wrong answer to.
Hello
Wednesday, December 9, 2015 || 4:15 AM
Hello. It's been quite (!!!) awhile since I've done anything close to reflective here (other than poetry and the occasional prose) — and I'm starting to dislike the lack of intimacy this space provides.
As of now, I am 1) content 2) slightly restless and 3) both dense and light. If you can be all four of those things at once then I am that. Not a bad combination... but a sneaky one. Creeps up on me at unexpected moments and nestles itself into my back in both good and bad times. It brings me both comfort and discomfort, but do not worry, mostly comfort :-)
I'm left all excited for my days to come! Very, very thankful for all the love and lightness in my life as of late hehe hopefully this can be seen in my writing as well....? :-) I am quite happy (in case you cannot tell).
3 separate poems written on 3 separate occasions
|| 4:04 AM
1.
The thought of you
is red-hot against my palms:
each smidgen of your
leftovers sear my insides —
like knife to flesh; fire to skin;
hurt to heart.
The spaces between me
carry a certain sort of gravity:
a pressing stillness, hovering
above me like deadweight.
2 (Haiku!!)
i.
this is how we grow
your edges sneak their way through
mine — and I let them.
ii.
this is how we stay:
each touch turns to comfort;
each kiss, a way home.
iii.
this is how we end:
a chest full of left-behinds,
a room full of silence.
3.
The secrecy of your
palms wrapped in mine
leaves a bitter aftertaste:
languid, soft courage
is seeping into my veins.
You are ever present;
and never there.
Poem I wrote several months back
Tuesday, October 27, 2015 || 10:38 AM
You listen to me
with two fingers: one
grazed over your skin
like plaster, the other
wavering over mine
like heat.
You listen to me
with three ears: words
floating on the surface,
stark and bare like dead
fishes skimming the water.
Two ears full of cursory
inaccuracies, the third ear
housed by a friend who
insists you deserve better.
Please, listen to me
with one heart: open,
bloodied and pure —
take me in like
a mother speaking
sweet to the womb;
loving and whole.
These
Tuesday, September 29, 2015 || 12:24 AM
These are all my words: they are coming together in sweet harmony; pulsating through my veins like fresh bullets plummeting through skin — desperate to find their way out.
These are all my body parts: my hands, eyes, hair, skin, heart. They are laid out in front of you with a sort of openess only reserved for careless love with a propensity to spill over guarded palms. A sort of carefully thought out recklessness resides in the spaces between us. I take it all in.
These are all my pieces: a smattering of fragments strewn beneath your feet. They are yours for safekeeping — you tuck them in at night with the promise they remain unassailable in your care. I know I am safe with you.
I guess I'm done
Saturday, July 11, 2015 || 1:41 PM
I wanted to write something about you, an ode, a poem, anything — but I was stuck; my mind drawing blanks as bare as the spaces between us. I no longer have anything to say.
Hesitant
|| 10:08 AM
These are the sweet pockets of warmth edging its way through the ridges beneath the cracks of my skin — tiny sparks of hope. I house them all with caution, trembling fingers shelving them in with all my broken pieces.
I am only somewhat there — I am an unabridged apology, all too careful and never enough ready. I am two parts shaken and all parts fear. I am sorry I can only ever be a somewhat, a kind-of, a maybe, an "I'll think about it", a placeholder. These palms do not have much to offer, for now, at least.
There are so many mistakes to be made. There is not enough of me to bear their consequences.
Some old poetry
Sunday, June 21, 2015 || 9:17 AM
(Something I wrote quite awhile back.. have not been writing as of late)
haiku (i):
where are you going?
i am still here, still waiting —
stillness fills these lungs.
haiku (ii):
two eyes, but one heart.
there is not enough of you
to fill this void, whole.
haiku (iii):
there is only room
for a quiet acceptance:
we cannot collide.
1am thoughts
Saturday, May 16, 2015 || 12:56 AM
I need space. So much space that if you lay me down from head to toe I would stretch across an entire ocean — vast amounts of air drifting through my fingers, waves washing over my skin; spilling onto the shore as a sort of premonition. Almost as if it is struggling to make itself known, a forewarning of sorts residing in my open palms. My touch is the equivalent of yellow tape plastered all over the scene of crime: do not cross or you might get hurt, and regrettably so.
I never did deserve what you had to offer, but I also didn't deserve what you chose to deny me of.
Avoidance
Thursday, May 14, 2015 || 10:36 AM
I will cross the
roads. I will make
every turn. I will
push away every
thought before
it bubbles over;
like broth
from a creek —
and spills
onto the edge like
asphalt, rendering
me helpless.
Three different things I want to say to three different people
Saturday, April 25, 2015 || 12:20 PM
1. Thank you for so, so much light. This self will love you for as long as you let me.
2. I miss your analogies — I felt like they were slivers of yourself you gave me for safekeeping, pockets of warmth pressed firmly into my palms. Sometimes... I think I hurt you too, in a different sort of way than you did me. Now all that I am trying to tell you is how sorry I am — I am a living, breathing, moving apology. I will be for all my days.
3. I am not someone you want to touch like this. There is inevitable hurt lying in these veins, ready to give itself away to you if you shake me up too hard. I hope you channel your affection somewhere, someplace more worthy of it. I am no place to call home.
Synthesis
Thursday, March 26, 2015 || 9:17 PM
i.
i am collecting
blood samples:
a sliver, a river,
oceans of red
gathered in my palms.
ii.
how much
light does one
need? my heart
is dense with it.
iii.
this is why
we exist in an
endless symbiosis —
a quiet contentment
emblazoned; settled
into each self.
"... Thank you for
taking me in."
Patience
Tuesday, March 24, 2015 || 12:22 AM
(i don't know about this one... i hardly like anything i write these days)
you have
inhabited all the
spaces between
my breaths — i am
a vessel; hands
encompassing,
encircling, holding,
wanting, needing:
take me. take me.
is anyone there?
i have been waiting —
tenderness has
grazed my palms since;
a quiet song fading
into my skin.
where are you?
i still wait for you.
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