When he made me cry so hard, I ended up puking my dinner out, still hacking and coughing, almost as if my still beating heart would emerge from within the rancid mess.
When I Googled my problems looking for anything or anyone to please help me. Because everything felt like it was slipping away like sand through my fingers.
When I couldn’t sleep and I’m up writing this at 4 in the morning because I’m hurting so much, I wish my heart would stop beating.
When I sat next to boys who fancy me and I don’t even bother because I felt like I was living a lie.
When he made me feel doubly mad at human beings in general because I felt like my world wasn’t present anymore and everything was spinning out of control.
When I would willingly break myself just to be whatever he wanted me to be.
(And he didn’t even stay to make sure the fragments healed right)
That was not love.
Don’t get me wrong, Singapore is a great place to be.
If you have status,
and a well paying job,
maybe a trust fund hiding somewhere,
profitable business to take over.
I didn’t say it was an easy place to be.
I’m just saying the view is pretty sweet.
In case anyone wants to know what it feels like being at a solar farm:
It’s hella hot, I’m a whole shade darker, and if you aren’t into sweating buckets, it’ll suck.
On mornings I forget to prep my breakfast, I queue up at the Chinese bread shop.
I always tell myself I should get something different. Maybe something with no overly processed meat or a tuna bun.
I repeat this to myself the whole 10+ people who are queuing in front of me and ordering basically everything I’m not.
It’s finally my turn. The lady asks me what I want. I pause; hesitate.
And order the same damn thing I’ve been eating for the past one and a half years since I’d started working in Raffles Place