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       Hullo. I'm Dani.

           I mostly write poetry and devour milk tea.
           The rest of the time, I'm slaving through medical school. 
           Also, I have a bunny. 

           Nothing shmancy.
More about me here

Twenty-Seventeen

31/12/2016

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Picture
2017:

Send me skyward, to parts unknown, to paths feet have yet wandered, to prayers I have muttered. Send me onward. Though my shoes long to stay cement glued to the ground, send me forward. Away, to countrysides and skylines, to parched lands and endless seas, to scorching heat and biting cold. 

I will follow: open armed, eagle spread willing. I will go: backpack ready, shoes on when I sleep. I’ve learned what it looks like to stay static, always fighting time and space and God. I’ve learned what it looks like to play with fire, taunting flames until one of us gets burned. Most often, the victim is me. I’ve learned what stars look like from the wrong side of the earth. I’ve learned reckless hymns, sung to justify my wrongs. I’ve learned the path of least resistance. I’ve learned contempt. 

Send me forward, and I’ll learn to want better things: the steady turning of gears, a well oiled machine. Send me onward, and I’ll learn how to steer past pirate ships. I’ll learn how to keep dreams in my pocket, tend them quietly until they grow into realities. Send me patients, and I’ll learn how to love them. Send me typewriters, and I’ll learn to write again. Send me more, God, and teach me to have more faith again.
Send me skyward, and I’ll grow wings again. I’ll learn all the flying I’ve forgotten.
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lines I wrote in my spare time

14/12/2016

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There were sea lions and whales here last summer... I taught my younger cousins to call them blubber nuggets.
Picture
One : Honey drenched lips, speak 
my name in morse code 
memories I can’t remember 
anymore. 

Two : Rough hands scrape 
against smooth 
shoulders, and I doe 
flinch—even stags run from 
danger.

Three : Echo familiar names, syllables 
I once ballerina turned to. Now, I am 
roundhouse kick solid 
stance ready for a fight. 

Three : Fairy dust fiction, and I still 
Peter Pan believe 
stupid 
things.

Four : Character arc un-
predictable: weather forecasts 
sun, but it storms 
beneath pale arched 
eyebrows and long pitch black lashes.

Five : Make sense of these 
lines I bridal veil hide 
behind, pull me apart. God 
​
knows you want to.
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feet

13/12/2016

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Excerpt from letters I've been writing to strangers about friends I once knew, and the people they could have been.
Picture
Five thousand steps from where I lay, there’s a boy with blistered feet. His shoes two sizes too big, passed down one year too soon. On Mondays, he walks east, and we meet—peripherally. Incidentally. The way seagulls note the presence of fishermen as both parties attempt to catch fish.

On Mondays, his feet blister from shoes he tries too hard to fill in an attempt to pacify beasts in his chest fed by the cloud heavy lie of his head: “Never enough, Never enough,”

Soundless noise whispers in his ears. It is so loud he misses my greeting, so distracting he misses me entirely. 

Two thousand steps from where I lay, he steps on beds of sands in shoes that fit. Size ten.

On Tuesdays, he shakes of his beast, and he is himself again—feet nimble and quick, Meleager besting Atalanta. Without the tricks.

On Wednesdays, his burden presses against his breast, and his shoulders sag beneath the weight again. He feeds the beast lies, believes them to be true in the process, and when made aware of their falsehood, continues to believe them anyway.

​
From where I lay, I pray to God for telescope vision, or needlepoint fingers to pry the monster from his frame. From where I lay, he is no longer visible: feet too weary to prop legs up, legs too heavy to stand. 

He does not hear me when I ask him: whisper your secrets so I may Atlas-carry your burden. My shoulders tuck neatly beneath your arm for you to crutch-lean upon me for support, but still he pushes up at burdens. Pushes me away. Like I said, we meet peripherally—Winter and Spring, o
ur feet never bringing us close enough.
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hippocampus hypothesis

12/12/2016

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Below is what a hippocampus ought not look like. You have been warned.
Picture
My hippocampus has classified you between
r
emember and forget,
has synapsed intermittently 
u
ndedided.


You had spiked up hair then, 
now, it lays flat under pressure:
stuffed information we try to trap in 
to porous jars flowing outward. 


You plan a couple of years down the line, indirectly 
ask me if we can walk this road together—still,
I classify you as intermittent, 
between transient and permanent—still


daring you to say it, to 
spell out the letters I read 
in between the lines 


you left 
me to find. 


I’m working on a hypothesis: 
eternity never ends, keeps 
going within bounded 
time you give me.


I think I’ve found it: 
cosmic burst happiness 
you break me. 


I think I believe in 
fate 
​
again.
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this is my life now (+ doing away with capitals)

12/12/2016

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I've been on hiatus–nothing you couldn't have deduce from my archive history–for a couple of months in pursuit of my education. The short of it: I am learning to suffer. The long of it I shall attempt to type out soon.

On another completely unrelated note: hence forth, consider my title capitalisation literary blasphemy or a reference to E. E. Cummings decapitalisation of i's. Truth be told, the sharp edges of title capitalisation bothers me. I have no idea why. Perhaps I am compensating for... something... Clinical psychiatry may answer that question... Or I'm simply rambling and all this is a distraction. 

Well, go on, poem down below.
Picture
The clicking of typewriter keys 
have faded, and the ledger scribbling 
ceased, and the sound of laughter 
muted by heavy textbooks and headphones 
tuning the rest of the world out lest I 
decide this isn’t worth pursuing anymore. 

This is my life now: stethoscope 

amplifying your heartbeat while 
tuning out what makes your heart beat 
faster. 

I am trying, 

convincing myself, spitting 
theories of delayed gratification, consoling 
my weary heart 
wants out, wants 
anything but this, but 
the heart is treacherous if it is consulted 
for anything but its beating. 

This is my life now: white coat wrap 

dreams from reality’s biting cold, orphan 
leave them on empty doorsteps, and ring the bell. 

Someday, I will be back for you 
when you have grown 
aware of your worth, reject the birthright of my 
arms when I finally have enough strength to hold you. 
​
You have the right to.
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