It's a not-so-secret-secret diary

As you sat there in front of me, staring at the ground, the alcohol swirling around in my system seemed to still.

Your face, softly illuminated by the streetlights, was the definition of picturesque; the very word you had used to describe me two years ago.

I search your face for answers every time I see you, but I can’t ever seem to find them. I never could - maybe that’s why I find you to be so intriguing, so irresistible.

We call each other good friends, we tell each other our secrets, we grieve about our old lovers to each other. Perhaps I am foolish to think that this could be more than just a friendship.

But whenever you reach out to hold my hand on the dance floor of a noisy and crowded club, we both seem to hold onto each other for a moment too long; and whenever you lean your body into mine for a hug, we stand there, melting into each other, absorbing each other, enjoying each other’s warmth just for a second.

There’s just the faintest hint of intimacy in the way we touch; perhaps this was what it could have been like. The two of us. Lovers.

These moments are like heaven and hell, like night and day - it leaves me ecstatic and yearning for more, but it also leaves me terrified that I may slip and reveal a bit too much. That I may ruin what we have with each other.

I’m scared that I’ll lose you. They say that if you truly love someone, it is better to remain friends. I never understood that until I met you. It scares me that my feelings may ruin what we have altogether.

So I don’t act on my feelings. I don’t let you know that I feel this way.

Yet, I just so, so desperately need to tell you that there is nothing in this life I want more than to give you what pieces I have left of my broken heart to give. If you will take them, they’re yours.

I want to surrender myself to you one more time. You have mended what little there was left of my fragile, aching heart, and I would not hesitate to take it out and give it away to you yet again if you asked. Even if it means that it may break again.

2025.07.07

Love with an expiry date.

It's an odd concept- I mean, every love story has an ending, but I don't mean it in that way. I mean meeting someone and sharing intimacy & the love that you have, knowing that in a couple of weeks, or months, you'd be saying goodbye to one another. A fling, or conditional love, so to speak.

Strangely enough, having that expiry date makes love and affection easier for me. I am always eager to share my abundance of love with others, but the time limit lessens the expectations that follow my affection. It's a giving and receiving without the need to validate that "transaction" in some way.

The morning park walks, the sharing of jewellery, the pain au chocolates, the head scratches. Getting tangled in one another, knowing it'll slip away almost as effortlessly as it came into my life.

2024.07.06

Every time I step out of the shower as of late, I see my mother's reflection staring back at me through the mirror. The mist, fogged-up glass, and the tussled mass of short, black hair obscuring my face: an exact replica of a piece of my mother that I remember from childhood.

The resemblance elicits an emotion that's been sitting on my chest, collecting dust for years. Comfort, nostalgia, and a sense of being safe. Being home. Only knowing the love and security the world had to offer and nothing else.

At the same time, this emotion is fogged by a streak of guilt, too. Just like the frosted mirror obscuring what is seen and felt. I feel like a fraud. Someone who has stolen the face and the youth of my mother. She's given so much for me to be here- I am a product of her sacrifices, and the thought of not living up to any expectations that she may have of me is a crushing one. I owe everything to her- I cannot afford to let her down.

Such a monolith of a woman, but she crumbles even at the slightest hint of affection from me. Have I really starved her of that to the point where she sees even the smallest gestures as something so significant? We speak languages of love that are worlds apart- how do I tell her that every mirror I step in front of is a reminder of the legacy of her that I carry? How do I tell her that my guardedness is an effort to conceal my vulnerabilities so that she does not suffer the pain that I do?

The pain and hurt that I go through is something that I know will never, ever come close to those that she has experienced, but I know seeing me going through them pains her in ways that transcend those experiences. I refuse to let her share that burden with me. She has already given me the world. This isn't her pain to carry.

I have never known how to let go.

As a child, my mother would compare me to a volcano: exploding uncontrollably, once I was filled to the brim and bubbling with frustration and anger inside. Never letting go, until I could feel the ugly emotions building up inside trying to push out of me; Until I could feel it under my skin, straining and screaming to be released out into the world, unleashed from its confines. Holding it in until I couldn’t any longer, and letting the culminations of my ugliness rush out of me like a broken dam.

Not much have changed since childhood, except that I somehow am better at letting it strain inside me now without bursting. I have learnt how to live with the tension, I suppose. To live with a storm inside of me.

I do not have the courage to unleash it anymore. It’s ugly, and I learn to live with it, so as to spare the world and everyone in it from ever bearing witness to it.

Though, I do wish I could do something about it. I wish I knew how to release it. To unload the anger and the fear and the frustration from inside me so that I could have more space to store things like kindness, and joy.

I am so afraid of letting the ugliness escape me, that I cannot muster up the courage to scream at the top of my lungs, even when I am alone. It’s like a mental block; Every fiber of my being refuses to stain my surroundings with what pools inside me.

To be truthful, I am afraid of my rage. My capacity for anger. I keep it under lock and key within me because I have seen it rear its ugly head and open its eyes, and I know what it can do. It cannot be tamed. I know that once I release it, it will eat away at everything I have inside me, until I am left with nothing but ashes as a reminder of what I used to be. 

- Drunkenly dancing with a boy trying to teach me the steps to a waltz at two in the morning, on the streets of the cold and sleeping city (it felt like the only thing that mattered in the world was me, him, and our bodies working in sync).

- The flowers wrapped in brown paper thrust into my hand the moments I opened the doors to my apartment by a man who I didn’t expect romance from (I saved a clipping to dry and keep; I don’t think I ever got to tell him that). 

- The piles of books I used to get gifted from an ex- lover, of books he found that he thought I would like (I did like all of them, he knew my taste better than I did)

- Leaning over my balcony and looking out into the city with his arms wrapped around me, and seeing two hawks flying besides one another (I never saw them again. I took them as a sign; I wonder if he did too).

- A boy transposing my favourite song so that he could play it for me on his instrument (I would listen to a recording of it to fall asleep on nights where I felt loneliest. It was beautiful).

- Tracing my lover’s body all over with my fingers, trying to memorise every crevice, curve and detail as they rest their head on the groove of my waist (I never want to forget. I’m scared that I will).

- The walkman and cassette tape of my favourite songs compiled into a mixtape that I got at as a Christmas gift, complete with a track list written in my old lover’s scribbly, messy handwriting (I never did get rid of either. I love it too much)

I mimic my predators to survive.

I disguise my old scars as battle trophies. A phony indicator of having fought battles and won. I mould myself so that I can slip into the skin of a predator- a clever way to disguise my fears. I chiseled away at myself to fit this disguise so perfectly that sometimes, even I forget that it was a farce to begin with.

It’s funny, how easy it seemed for you to peel away that facade that I had spent an eternity perfecting. The shield that even I had forgotten I was hiding behind before I met you.

I was terrified at first. Terrified that you’d tear me to shreds the moment you saw me as I was, without the veil of protection obscuring your perspective of me. And to be honest, I still am; I’m still scared that you’ll hurt me. That you’ll leave me bleeding and alone, no matter how much I try to fight it.

This is exactly why I camouflage myself- because people like you are bound to leave a trail of pain when you encounter people like me. Because I know it’s better to hide who I am than to get hurt again.

But in some twisted way, as much as it scares me, I want you to break me. I’d like to be the image of a perfect sacrifice for you- a fawn, gracefully sat with its neck exposed. I’m laying myself down willingly on your altar, ready for you to sink your teeth in and rip me into a million little pieces. Because I know there is no other way that you know to hold onto someone like me. And I need for you to hold on as long as you can. The pain you bring me, the vulnerability that you bring me is the most alive I’ve felt in years- your fangs digging into my skin and the blood it draws makes me feel intoxicated.

I have no reason to fight back. All I want is for you to destroy me completely. For once in a long, long time, I’m not trying to chase a win. I’m not trying to come out on top. All I want is your presence, no matter what the cost.

So, about last night.

We were laying on your couch after dinner- my head nestled perfectly on the groove of your chest. Your hand lingering, tracing the lines of my back and legs. The wine that we were drinking was warming my insides, the alcohol giving me the courage, or in hindsight, the stupidity, to blurt out something that I had been meaning to ask you for a very long time.

“Do you think you could fall in love with someone like me?”

I looked up at you with a smile- a lighthearted grin. One that I hoped was hiding just how desperately genuine the question I had just spat out was. 

A brief silence filled the room.

I held my breath and looked at you. Please say something. Or I’m going to drown in this silence. I thought to myself.

You let out a light chuckle that breaks the tension. You look at me, hand pressed firmly on my thigh, and smile back. But you don’t say anything.

Not about the question, at least.

It almost looked sympathetic, the smile; and really, in that moment, you didn’t have to answer that question out loud.

Before you could collect yourself, your eyes, glowing like amber under the light, wavered for a split second- silently whispering the answer I was searching for. The look in your eyes in that brief moment told me everything I needed to know. 

“oh darling, is that even a question you need to ask?” is what they seemed to be saying. 

And that was enough to make me understand.

I knew at that moment, that the “I would, if I could”s you always offered me were empty promises. They were lies, shielded by the impossibility of our circumstance. They were hollow promises, ones that broke into a million little pieces the very moment they spilled out of your mouth. And laying there, staring into the tiled floor with your chest pressed against my face, I finally understood everything.

You never saw me the way I saw you. I was never an option for real love. To you, I was a toy. A puppy. An intermission.

A placeholder.

This was never meant to last, I know. But I was hopeful. No, I was naïve. Naïve enough to think that I still somehow stood a chance of being wholly loved by you, even just for a moment.

And now, I know that I have no chance of ever holding a place in your heart. I know that you will never hold on to my affections the way I hold onto yours. And that’s okay- because looking back, I will never regret having loved you too little in the time I had with you. I can shamelessly say that I loved you with my entire being.

I’m sitting here in my living room, plucking and eating from the box of cherries that I shared with you yesterday.

I feel the tart fruit fill my mouth. I swirl my tongue around its pit.

The lingering taste of the fruit in my mouth takes me back to yesterday morning. The image of you picking up a cherry as if you were picking out the finest ruby from a treasure chest, and popping it in your mouth plays on repeat in my mind.

And I can’t help but wish that I were that cherry.

To be picked by you, out of all the others. To be chosen consciously. Knowing that I am the one you want, even with all the other choices you could have picked staring right back at you.

Bursting between your lips. Red, sweet insides drenching your tongue and coating the inside of your mouth. Breaking, cracking, with a gentle pop inside your mouth.

I wish I were that cherry. Being engulfed by you. Becoming a part of who you are.

I wish I were that cherry, because I want you to take everything I have, and spit out just my core, my pit. Naked and vulnerable, but willing, and wanting, to grow again. Into something bigger. Something more than just a core surrounded by a sweet, tart shell that I no longer have any use for.

I wish I were that cherry, so you can, even just for a moment, see me, taste me, feel me, as a whole. So that I could have my whole being be felt by you so entirely. Have you feel, and know, exactly what I am, who I am, so clearly, without any confusion. To be experienced and felt as a whole. To be understood instinctively.

That’s all I crave. All I want. I wish I were that cherry.

My lips wrap around yours: I’m trying to study every bend, dip and curve of your body with mine. Silently hoping that this time, worship might save me from myself. From hurting. From loss.

From losing you.

This is my prayer now: Pleasure and power are my offerings. Your body is my gospel, my place of worship.

My affections have nestled itself in you. My love has rooted in you and flowered into halos around your head. 

This act, then, is an unuttered prayer: A desperate and unspoken affirmation of devotion.

It’s a silent hope, too- that you may see me as something rather divine. Just like how you’re the closest thing to salvation I have right now.

We saw each other again yesterday.

You said that you “don’t want to rely on me too much and keep it fun”, which my rational side completely understands, but my emotional side completely loathes.

We both agreed on this- we knew that we were bound to end the moment we touched. This was never meant to last.

But the way we act around each other seems to suggest otherwise. The way you kiss my forehead. The way I trace your back, with your head nestled perfectly on the curve of my waist. The way we can sit in silence, soaking up each other’s company without feeling the need to fill it with anything other than the comfort of each other’s presence.

I want this to be something more than “just some fun”, but I know deep down that it’s something entirely unlikely. Yet, I so badly want that confirmation of further affection- that step forward into enjoying each other’s companionship and personhood, rather than just dwelling in the fleeting realm of physical affection and lust.

I know what I’m yearning for is illogical, but again, what better thing to do illogically than to love?

To give yourself to someone, or to find refuge in another person- the concept in itself is illogical. Love is supposed to transcend and surpass any logical inhibitions. It’s supposed to be the one thing that makes your existence just a little more special and meaningful.

So why not this? Why not take the risk?

I have never related to a sentence in a work of literature more than when I read this passage written by Sylvia Plath in her journal:

“I want desperately to be liked… I put new people on a pedestal, worshipping them for their surprising kindness to me, for their benevolent notice”

You finally came back from that month-and-a-half long trip yesterday.

The time went by surprisingly fast, but I was still impatient to see you again. Surprisingly fast was still not enough to justify how much I had missed you.

I had been picturing the moment of your return and had been replaying it over and over again in my head for the past couple of days.

The relief. The comfort. Melting into each other, embracing each other after a month and a half of nothing but your lingering touches haunting me.

All of it.

And still, that first look at your face and the first hug we shared was more than anything that I could have asked for or expected. 

It wasn’t an overwhelming rush of joy, or even excitement- that’s what I thought it was going to be. But it was different. It didn’t make my heart beat out of my chest, or make me rush or shout or laugh.

Instead, it was as if a wave of calm had washed over me. We locked eyes, and everything I wanted to say before that moment dissolved. I didn’t feel the need to tell you I missed you, or how I had been waiting for this moment. There was no need for that.

There I was, and there you were. And that’s all we needed.

You are my home.

You are my shelter.