prose 2

everything in me seizes up when i walk by your desk. every time. i cursed the teacher who assigned you two rows in front of me midway through the term, bemoaning the loss of your mindless chatter to cut through the boredom. now i can’t celebrate it enough, that it is jim the new transfer student that has to sit next to an empty table 4 times a week. that at least i can sense someone else to my right in class. hearing the scratching of robert’s pen on paper might not be your rhythmic tapping, but neither is it not complete silence. if i don’t look up, i can fool myself for just a bit longer.

my grades sink. i don’t really care, because we committed to the same college, which everyone said was dumb and that we’ll never make other friends. well, i guess i’ll have to now. at least in five months i won’t have to stare down the minda-shaped-elephant-in-the-room every morning at seven. sometimes, i stay awake through the night just so i can guarantee that my brain won’t be able to process anything the next day, much less the concept forever. or loss.

you know what i’m pissed off about? that no one uses voicemails anymore. or that everyone uses snapchat and instastories instead of just recording videos that actually stay on your phone past 24 hours. because i didn’t know i would have to live on memories forever, minda, and i’ve been replaying those stupid voice messages we send each other when we’re too lazy to type too often. so often i know every hitch of your breath. its so stupid. do you think snapchat would send me the silly videos you sent me at 3am while cramming for your bio test if i just emailed them? they have to have your face saved in a server somewhere, right?

last year you tagged me in a facebook post you made when you were 14, talking about how you wanted to be a doctor. you said “HAHAHAHA @AMANDA ISNT THIS HILARIOUS REMEMBER WHEN I WASN’T GONNA BE A BROKE ENGLISH MAJOR”. forget about majoring in english, now you won’t even graduate from high school. how is any of this fair?

a/n: save me i don’t know what i’m doing someone teach me how to WEAVE


in her ears, she had a teenage boy band singing about home, about foreign lands, about wanting people to be nearer than they are.

she felt that, slumped back, with one earbud in and the other dangling down. she had no desire to expend the energy sitting up would require. she wanted to hear boys crooning about the exact emotions she was feeling, she wanted to hear the unfamiliar sounds of bike bells and tram signals. she wanted to hear the unfamiliar tongue occasionally pass her, wanted to hear the water in the canal lapping away under her feet. she wanted to keep nursing this cheap coffee gone cold, she wanted to feel without thinking. she wanted to just be, and for some reason, watching the silver light glint off the small canal waves, she did.

maybe it was okay, in this strange, foreign place, to not feel at home.

forget the fact that she never felt otherwise anywhere. but in this moment? the displacement in her surroundings could only mirror the constant displacement she felt inside. so it was okay, if only for now. so there she sat, underdressed and overstressed, watchig the dusk set.

to not feel at home, and to not feel a home. if you don’t think quite too hard about it, they could almost be the same thing. not exactly, but almost. close enough, she guesses.

a/n: what! jenn is writing prose ?!?!?! yes but i have no idea how to make plot and scenes cohesive lol save me writing is so hard

a lil piece in appreciation of one of my fav pieces of poetry

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant’s fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

— The Old Astronomer (To His Pupil)

i think its hard to fully comprehend how important the last two lines of this stanza are to me.

obviously, there’s the astronomy aspect, the one supernatural element i cling onto for support and guidance. in the absence of religion, i turn my faith to the slightly more tangible aspect of the world — that of gas and liquid held together by will and gravity. the stars will always hold some sense of awe to me, the comforting notion that i am, and hence my impact is, but a tiny speck with no real consequence and no real finality from a otherworldly perspective.

but other than the obvious astronomy involvement, the duality of the quote — that we love the things other fear, or the things that may eminently or presently hurt us can still be loved anyway — hits me somewhere deep. not gonna lie, i was introduced this quote by a larry stylinson video, but it amazes me how well these two sentence capture the complicated feeling of being closeted and internal homophobia. i have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night? the stars are the love i feel, the quickening of the hummingbird pace of my heart i sense, the involuntary quirk of my cheeks that lift the right side of my lips a tad higher than my resting left, the stars are the valves clamped around my chest, my hindbrain, down deep in the heat of my body, the stars are the catalysts that trigger their united, grasping action. the stars is the joy you feel loving, and being loved. the night is the black, inky mess pressing down on you when someone enquires pressingly about which nice young fella you’re seeing, pressing further and further till your vision is a shade of nothing and your heart is kicking up a desperate panic from being claustrophobic. the night is the sensation of scratchy concrete on your back from being backed and backed and backed into it by society’s touching concerns of why are you still single? let me introduce you to a nice young man, of look at you, with your nice long locks, you have a face too pretty to be wasted! find a partner quick, and procreate. the night is the omnipresent fear that looms large, that makes you make plan upon back up plans in the anxiety shrouded dark. i have lived a life of fear and worry in large part thanks to my sexuality but the mere possibility of feeling the overwhelming encompassing happiness another human being can give me? it makes it all kinda worth it. worth bearing with. i have loved loving you too fondly to be fearful of their judgement, i can say, to a imaginary you with an imaginary face feeling the improbably happiness in the warmths on the tips of my fingers.

and if i don’t end up paired? if i end up untwined, as i am presently, with just me, a job, and a dog on the side? then there will be no need to tell anybody of the stars anyways. there will be no need to hand society the heat-seeking gun with my exact body temperature coded in. i will keep the gem carved knife to myself, hold it close, close to my heart, so no one can take it from where it resides to stab exactly where it resides. i will not give society both the weaponry and the justification to engage it if the stars don’t shine overhead of me. though my soul will set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light.

i don’t know. i have a lot of emotions about this quote. and a lot of emotions about being queer. i guess i wanted to share the love i have for these two beautiful lines somehow somewhere, and this was where.

he’s not the sun, i am

he’s not the sun, i am

On July 22nd of 2010, a month and a bit more after they won the Cup, the longest solar eclipse of the century happens. NASA warns people not to observe the sight with bare eyes- there’s too much power in the sun, they say, and it can damage your retina.

That’s funny, Jonny thinks, stopping in the archway leading from his living room, where he can see Patrick perched on his kitchen counter in too long sweats and badly rumpled hair. That the only way we can witness such grandiose phenomena is with extreme caution.

And then Pat looks over the top of the newest shitty romance novel he’s been reading, and does that smile where it reaches both his dimples and his eyes, and oh. Oh. That’s not funny at all.

[a/n: first prose piece posted here! wrote this a long while ago for some fanfic thing lol. probably the only context you need to understand this piece is that jonathan and patrick are hockey players? cause i am nothing but predictable. & their team won the cup (or the hockey championship trophy) that year sometime early june.

i actually quite like this piece? because if you know me in real life you know one of my greatest gripes with my writing is that there aren’t a lot of layers to unpack, or symbolism, or references in general. i’m a very literal, confessional writer and i don’t know if i like that? it’s what i’m familiar with for sure but i would also like to improve in other genres and styles. so this was one of my first successful attempts at branching out, lel.

thanks for reading! <3]

Masters of War


[a/n: wrote this in cca couple of days ago during a writing exercise where we listened to Bob Dylan’s Masters of War and wrote anything we wanted inspo’d by it, so obviously i wrote something completely unrelated to the actual well meant message the song conveyed & instead made it about myself. lel]


I just want you to know / 
I can see through your masks
it’s this again isn’t it / the game of superior acting / just who will deceive who / and who will receive what



And you turn and run farther 
/ When the fast bullets fly
if I cajole answers out from you / are those answers well deserved / is that trust well deserved / i know you’re taking a gamble / you’ve never done this before / and I doubt I’m the right person to lead you through this turmoil



But I see through your eyes / And I see through your brain
a heart is a heart is a heart that wants to be loved / when my words aren’t enough I’ll borrow from the others, alive or dead / it’s easy to get caught up in one’s own art / it’s easier to get caught up in my own heart / so remind me, baby, that one’s willingness to offer affection / should never couple with an assumption for returned warmth



When the death count gets higher / You hide in your mansion
not sure if I fired the bullet into the ground or if you nudged the gun down / you’re impermeable your face your tears you cry and I will never know why and all these emotions you claim are not yours mystify you’re unreachable you don’t to be reached I need to respect the words you speak



You are not worth the blood
 / That runs in your veins
false / false / false / I don’t know what things you say to yourself / but if it’s berating / if it’s degrading / its false / false / false



Even Jesus would never 
/ Forgive what you do
jesus does not like those who are so confident to assume what is not true / which, to be clear, refers to me and not you



All the money you made 
/ Will never buy back your soul
or so I tell myself / but you have to understand, darling, souls are hard to maintain / money can be placed in banks / the happiness of cold hard cash / while inhumane, is easier to process / how are the giddy emotions of gambling away further happiness for heightened joy presently instead / somehow worth the risk of a future crash



And I’ll stand on your grave 
/ Til I’m sure that you’re dead
emotions have got to go, man / I would like to file a complaint with god / these hormones, they were an inefficient design / why not make me a robot that would have been easier than all these emotions I possess.


[a/n again: not sure what to feel about this piece since overall it’s just rather clumsy both content and form wise. yeAHHH so i took 2 lines of lyrics out of the song (in italics) and extrapolated my own response to it a line below. also yes shush i am aware i did the exact same thing for lanterns although i did use every line of the song for that look this was timed writing and therefore my creativity re: form was limited ok!!! instinctively turned to shitty prose (?) poetry. free verse my one true love. + this was designed to be read out loud? so slam that shit out. ++ pronoun use is a mess ikikik it is also lowkey personal/confessional aiya i’ll tag it as so la]

[SingPoWriMo Days 6] A lil copout

Day 6 Prompt: Write the poem you need to hear/have written for you. (I didn’t manage any of the bonuses, so nada on that front)


its ok to not know what the fuck you’re doing
that drainage density increases with rainfall yet in the tropics where theres the most
rainfall that shit just doesn’t happen cause trees.
bloody trees.
that when you’re lost and scrambling at your notes for just a strand of sanity
it’s ok to just draw a lil star next to the question
and meet your teacher for tea.

having an angsty day at school?
yeah don’t worry lol me too
but it’s ok if the smile feels strained
when you can’t tell if they can tell that the message your face is sending doesn’t match the one in your brain
“have fun at nrp, have fun at ssef, don’t come back till you win a gdamned prize”
that’s what they hear me say
but “oh dear god, your portfolio must be spotless, what about me, what about mine”
goes the voice in my head i’m quite desperate to hide

i know you don’t want to think these things
neither do i
when genuine happiness for your dearests’ various accomplishments is tainted by
your own brain comparing to your blemishes and stains and cries
but it’s ok to think that you’re blatantly incompetent
as long as you’re not satisfied
cause at least you can try to square your shoulders and furrow your brows and
get that geog assignment done by 5.

[a/n: the most cop outs of cop outs lel just ranting essentially. i was v angsty in school, and doing a really frustrating geography assignment. that all]

lil ranty rhyme-y thing-y

sometimes to make myself feel half decent i’ll tell myself i deserve better. that for some reason despite all of my crookedness i don’t have to deal with the same in others. and that when you jet off yet i linger i can ask myself how is that what i deserve? that i am always the one more eager but everyone has their own different emotions and all of them are just as real as another’s. just because i feel my own the most intimately does not mean that mine’s the only one that matters and i do not think of these things often but yet now i do, yet now i do.

maybe it’s not about due, or being deserving. it’s high time i let go of the comforting notion of karma. regardless of my faults (of which there are many), that doesn’t justify me refusing love just because i don’t think i’m worthy. i don’t have to do this to myself that’s what it boils down to it reduces down to the truth that tears away my self perpetuating berate hitting me with a sign in my face that says “you don’t owe fate anything” and maybe i don’t. maybe i don’t.

a wise man once said that we accept the love we think we deserve but aren’t we such terrible terrible evaluators for our own self worth? isn’t it ridiculous how a quote from a book for a teenaged self still stands true in the face of adulthood? a cheesecake to you might not be a cheesecake to me. then whose words should we believe?

anyways i think i’m just a lil sad and a lot confused. about my arrogance and my shame and me wanting to pave my own lane; fuck fate. about deferring to higher forces and considering if that’s laziness or humility. about preserving pride or happiness, and the strange strange way those two elements intertwine. i’m sick of this. i’m sick of this complexity, of making decisions, of being vulnerable to my very own emotions. is this what being alive feels like? when can i stop lying to myself just to make myself feel better? why does everyone i choose to trust die?

just a lil sad and a lot confused. but what’s new? •u• *shrug*
[a note: i feel uncomfortable calling this a piece or anything! its just me being a lil ranty & this is how i keep my rants from being to aggressive, i guess, i prose poetry the crap outta them. shitty art for shitty emotions, i guess.]

what burns colours into you?

i have never felt less alive. i am a mockery of who i aspire to be. routine is comforting and great and all, but routine from mindlessness is absolutely stifling. i have never felt less engaged with all that i love- i have not seen art in so long, i have not sat through a hockey game in the longest of times, i have not discovered new music , i have not unearthed new creators, and instead i reread books i’ve read before in a desperate bid to find comfort and emotion. i have not written or created in so, so long. my mary oliver book is overdue because i have yet to find the energy to finish it, yet i refuse to return it unread, for that surely is a sign of defeat. a definite sign that paints out loud and clear: i no longer have time for art in this shadow of a life i have.

this mindless shuffle for greater achievements is unbecoming. this withdrawal from activities that stimulate you is embarrassing.

godamnit, jenn