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Sarah, 18, Singapore
(click the flower above for older entries)
Twitter: @sarahbananachan
Instagram: hisarahnademe
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Sunday, November 30, 2014 || 10:19 AM
(I'm sorry I have not been writing and I seldom find the need to explain myself or provide illustration for my absence but I will tell you guys this: I've been very soaked up in my own thoughts. I've had a lot to process recently and I am constantly thinking, constantly coming up with new and different conclusions and rediscovering myself.
I've taken to dayre to pen down my thoughts for a bit but I'd like to keep the link private, mmm I need a lot of quiet time and space right now. I will write soon when I am a little more unconstrained and less disorganised. When things start to make a little more sense. I'll see you guys very very soon I hope x)
:)
Wednesday, November 19, 2014 || 10:05 AM
This is a sense of.... new calm. Bursts of energy coupled by long periods of reposeful okay. I am okay. I say this in a way that feels like the air drifting through my fingers, I say this in a way that feels like rubbing the backs of your palms against warm skin.
There is less space between the cracks than before: I am healing. Slowly but steadily, like a seedling growing to fruit.
I almost do not feel like asking — these renewed emotions are something to consider.
Sorry
Tuesday, November 4, 2014 || 12:50 AM
You (ii) / countless
Saturday, November 1, 2014 || 2:45 PM
(i feel rusty excuse this please)
There are nights where I clutch pillows close to my body to satisfy my hunger for your embrace — I've never known my arms to ache at the thought of holding you, you soothe the calluses of your palms on the small of my back.
There are nights where I count. One person, two people, three months, four hours, five lifetimes. I know that the highest number I can reach before I fall unconscious will be less than the number of days I will love you.
There are nights where I know that surely there are worse things than yearning unmet but your words are distilled on my skin as if it is made of paper. Easily imprinted on, easily discarded.
The bad days never end
Monday, October 20, 2014 || 4:07 PM
— this is the lowest point of my entire existence.
Bad few days
Sunday, October 19, 2014 || 2:01 PM
Perhaps if I lie here long enough, I'll become part of the floor — part of interior design, layers of me beneath your feet. No need to tread gently: I am already all bruises and scars, a vessel of warm tears in a leaking ship. I am too much flesh and not enough skin; too much pain and not enough reason to stay.
I will not falter, though I fear I am already too late.
You (i)/countless
Monday, October 13, 2014 || 2:53 PM
Your voice is ricocheting off my skin as if it is water and I am a ceramic surface — cold, hard but easily damaged. Hit me twice and hairline cracks will skim my exterior. Hit me thrice and I'll crumble before your eyes.
This is hunger I've never known — this clumsy greediness spilling over my hands and onto your lap. I want, no need, no want, no need all of you: heat flirting with my every sense, my longing stretched over your bones like skin.
I wrote this awhile back and I'll write it again; spray paint it over ceilings and drag it through the mud: you cannot make homes out of people.
God help me but I already did.
-
Wednesday, October 8, 2014 || 8:10 PM
(wrote you a letter and then trashed it)
Unconditionally
Saturday, October 4, 2014 || 2:24 AM
i.
your whole being
is untenable:
flawed and insupportable,
i try my best
to grasp on to shaky corners
and straighten my back
so you don't fall
ii.
i hear your voice tremble
over ceaseless admissions,
'who is there?'
i am here. i am
always here.
iii.
despite
your wayward tendencies
and hopeless fallacies:
i will wrap you
around my sinews and
love you whole.
(I haven't written in awhile, excuse this)
Thursday, October 2, 2014 || 10:29 AM
I knew your face before I knew your name — the crow's feet that line your eyes and the chiseled angles of your jawline before the word I repeat in hushed tones over two glasses of Vodka and three glasses of ice cold water.
I knew your name before I knew your story — each syllable carefully rolled off my tongue and slipped into the open, the taste of your nomenclature on the insides of my mouth (sweet, yet fiery like liquid nitrogen) before the tellings of what made you. How you scraped your knuckles falling off a bike when you were six, but was more concerned about the damage to your bicycle — something not as living breathing consuming as you are. It made me wonder how much you had to give.
I knew your story before I knew I loved you — the way your heart works before I was aware it was capable of capturing mine.
Lacking
Sunday, September 21, 2014 || 5:40 PM
(i like how white and vast library tables are — i'd want to counter them by spilling my notes all over the table)
(I admit I think this sometimes)
Tuesday, September 16, 2014 || 12:16 AM
I'm not drowning in anything — lacking is the relentless and unfaltering passion I've always desired. I want to be more sure of this than anything else in the world; for standstills to finally make sense (I want to know why people hunger the way they do). I want to be able to write volumes of poetry with every syllable of your name and every brush of your skin.
I feel like I cannot. This should not bother me but it does, it does.
New sort of feelings
Saturday, September 6, 2014 || 10:50 PM
You have the loveliest eyes I have ever known — I want them to read me for days. Your gaze is a prefix to the knots in my stomach; I often want to hold your hand mid-sentence. You are filled with warmth and I am trying to make my vessel fire-proof to contain it all. This may not have been the passion I've always desired (you do not beget tumultuous paroxysm ... ok sometimes) but it is the steady calm I've received: tucked so neatly in my back pocket there is nothing I can do but provide it a home.
So here I am. Open, for you.
(I miss you even through the nights, I miss you through the eight-hour separations, I miss you through the spaces between my fingers and the air between the spaces.)
Things I know to be true (ii)
Saturday, August 30, 2014 || 9:41 PM
your skin feels like a thousand fires, burning a thousand times over:
i want to get lost in the flames.
(i felt like writing tonight)
|| 1:26 AM
Stop breathing air into my lungs — it only reminds them I need you for survival. I take residence in our symbiosis; I take you in and you (hopefully) do the same. I cannot trust myself in your hands: you are faultless and I am the river skimming the rocks; I am the spillover from the dam. Not good enough to touch you: yet you weave yourself into the flecks of my skin, you flit between the spaces of my fingers — entrapping me in your recluse. Let me out/ Can I stay? I cannot decide which question to ask you.
You are constantly in the recesses of my mind; I'd forget the days of the month sooner than I could ever forget your name.
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