“where is the room?” – a musical poem


where is the room where i used to play in
i cannot find it at all

where is the truth when i need it
no one will tell me at all

how is it that i am so young but
just want to crawl

dig me a little hole
to curl inside
to curl into a ball

where is my youth
i used to want it all

all that it took for it
to perish
was one nasty fall

how is it that i nothing strikes my fancy
nothing strikes me awe

plant me a wallflower to watch and
just withdraw

who did i used to be
when i was small

i still feel like a scared little child
though i’m tall

where is the room where i used to play in
i cannot find it at all

where is the truth when i need it
no one will tell me at all

where is my youth
is it depleted
i do not feel it at all

where is the room?


a short story

They approached her apprehensively, handling her fingers like a newborn fledgling. Her hands felt agreeable to their touch. It was the first time they held each other like this. They had worried for a while about the compatibility. No, not the personality one. That was a given. How could anyone bother being around someone whose presence did not provoke a sense of joy? Well, Xiao had thought that people have been married for less. Financial stability and alimony was incentive enough for some. The existence of prenups were indicative of that. Hell, the couples they grew up around seemed empty of romance. Perhaps that was why they had craved for it so desperately. The movie-kind of love, with an official soundtrack and montages, with grand gestures and a perpetual honeymoon period. I could do it, they thought.

No, the compatibility they were worried about had been the hand-holding kind. Whether her height and arm-length could comfortably fit theirs, rather than have someone’s elbows sag or cramp up due to physical dimensions. If they could easily saunter about the wet damp streets on a moonlit evening for hours, still clasping.

It had only been the first week since they had finally acknowledged their mutual attraction to each other. While it had appeared for her very recently, it had always been on their mind. There was an inkling of the idea when they had first seen her.

It had come with the thought: “I want to know what cereal you eat in the morning.” That was always how they knew when someone would become special to them.

Xiao had always thought of the idea of “friend-zones”- they imagined it was the best place to be! Doesn’t the purest of love surpass that of romantic approval? They would often hear male friends complain of this wretched area- their efforts to befriend a lady thwarted by their inevitable lack of interest in being “more than friends’. They would scold them, saying how communication isn’t so difficult. It is not impossible to convey a message, especially to someone you’re supposed to care about. If the whole objective was to doink, why couldn’t they just go on Tinder? Of course not! I want my sex to have feelings, they would claim. But what is making love without actual love? Who in the right mind would want to kiss someone who did not want to kiss them back? It seemed to simple. Love confessions were never easy, and depending on the delivery, could be seen as rather creepy…but at least it makes things honest. And honesty was important for any dynamic.

Rejection was recurrent in their life, but never once had it affected the way they felt for their beloveds. Great crushes usually turned into life-long friendships, sprinkled with inspiration inducing moments, enough to make even the most obvious and painful truths bearable. They just wanted whatever love they could find to be meaningful.

Wasn’t it already?

They strolled around the park for the first time as a couple- she was shy for having dated someone like them for the first time. What kind of person that was, they would never exactly find out, but they didn’t dare question it. All that matter was that they were there, for the time being, keeping each other warm.

There was nothing better than this, they had thought. A superior definition of togetherness. The knowledge of a prolonged and passionate companionship, whose participants would decide what to eat for dinner, brush teeth, go to bed, and wake up from dreams, still facing each other. Xiao had never understood why the ultimate achievement was “sex”. Why that was what a “home run” meant. They had tried it and then proceeded to avoid it. It was just an anxiety inducing mess.

It was such a suggestive word. An activity that society and advertisements had focused so much attention on. They knew it meant “seven” in Swedish, and that it was necessary for procreation. That it was what their parents were doing that one late night when they were 7 years old and couldn’t sleep. It was the topic of their fellow peers at school whenever anyone did anything remotely raunchy, despite everyone’s prepubescent awkwardness. It was a badge of honour, you know. Bumping uglies. They would wonder what their new lover’s opinion would be. They were slightly afraid. Would they leave me for another, more willing partner? Did they, themselves. crave it as much as everyone else seemed to?

Only time would tell. But for now, they would enjoy the company of their dear one. The smoothness of their fingertips. Their hands felt as if they were about to develop frostbite, but it was worth it, getting to know the texture of her palms.


with each rotation of a padded hula hoop
the bumps digs into your stomach

the pain almost mimics
what the forging of abs might feel like

after a while,
the belly is numb,
and there might actually be some internal bruising

for the next few days
like a constant reminder,
your tummy screams agony
and you smile quietly-

a secret that should bring results.
and these results will make you happy.

if i’ve learned anything from hurting yourself,
it’s that the addictiveness of hiding shit like this
will eventually turn into madness
that has you unable to hug you tiny baby cousin
because you’re covered in self-inflicted scars.

my entire body is a rejected peeled plum skin
the thigh of a dedicated roller-derby lass
a spit out aubergine from a repulsed mouth
the colour of your favourite jumper of mine

my chest is a beat up baseball that has unraveled
all over the floor
all in pieces
smashed m&ms and broken mirrors
crashed cars and mangled knuckle bones
irreparable and a FUCKING mess

i love it
i love it
i love it

because at least it’s better
than feeling a pain
caused by someone else.



inadequacy stinks

galumphing through a bookshop in my home city
i attempt to read some Taiwanese poetry

understanding every other word,
my mind screams
barely piecing together
a fragment of someone else soul
preaching about the transient quality of attraction
…                                                                           (i think)

feeling a phoney,
i scramble back to the “Foreign Language“ section
where I am strong again-
and think myself
“real clever”

in a place,
according to my passport,
I supposedly

you fucked me good

like a read receipt that creeps
on the corner of every virtual textual transaction,

you cannot erase this relationship.
you cannot evade the effects of correspondence.

if you try,
it sinks its teeth deeper
on the repressed side of your heart
like an anti-rape condom.

you fucked me.

you fucked me good.

but not even a doctor
can help you now.

I have seen the face of my downfall

I have seen the face of my downfall.

It is not rigid nor jagged,
Darkness embodied by a demon’s chortle.

Not red piercing pupils
which stare into your soul,
Exploiting your weaknesses and insecurities

It is a soft serene complexion
With beautiful vacant eyes,
Looking through you
As if you weren’t there.

It is an indifferent smile
Which opens and serenely says:
“You are just a memory.”
A gone and past thing.

Whose importance no longer matters
Since your existence is benign
And viewed as a mistaken interaction of poor judgement,
Erasing the value of whatever good you might have thought there to be.

The devil does not take place in your worst enemies.

The most pain is often dealt by a former friend.

When two exes talk

The sensation of a gloveless winter walk
Emerges when two exes talk
Like being caught cold in rain
Or when the ice freezes the brain

A disconnect, that does not work
A helplessness that does berserk
It does not permit itself be made
And so the feelings only fade

I look at you and feel a haze
I know you will not meet my gaze
Rejected from the hopeful daze,
Dejected in a hurtful craze.

Searching fruitless in your face
For remnants of this old love’s trace.
I know now hot we reached this place-
Do you ever miss my warm embrace?

We chat like strangers who’ve just met,
I ruminate a previous bet:
You asked me not to break you heart-
On mine you’ve made a glaring start.

Indifferent seeming, plain and frank
A past me would think this all a prank
You were an angel, praised a saint-
A mere façade, a coat of pain

Destroying me with honesty
Forgetting all you learned of me
Awestruck, I still cannot believe-
You reflect this as a queer reprieve.

You held me close, and hugged me tight
Remembered as a sad respite.
I will a friendship, all despite
Restraining tears with all my might.

Proof of how history repeats,
I flame a smoke and take a seat
I peer inside to check my soul,-
Just ashes of a dying coal.

You loved me once, you don’t deny
You current self is stupefied
Our bond you attempt to forget,
It does not fit the life you set.

I leave you, for it hurts to stay
To understand this game you’ve played.
The aim was never to deceive
Yet it’s precisely what you achieved.

I depart your ruse,
Exit the grift
Take what’s left,
Accept the shift.

You’ve killed a part of me you knew.
The one I grew together with you.
In time you’ll realise what is true;
That you were young,
Lonely. Confused.

That you were afraid,
Thoughtless. A prude.
The fault was yours-
The problem was you.

And you must live with the consequence
of the choices that you choose.