Blossom: Full Moon Finale

TW: mentions of mental health, xenophobia, 

domestic/sexual violence, and grey suicidality

    I remember watching the Korean Drama series "Hwang Ji-Yi" (2006) back in Taiwan and being obsessed with the story that's based on 황진이 c. 1506 - c. 1560 ("Hwang Jini" or "Hwang Ji-Yi"), also known by her gisaeng name 명월 ("Myeongwol" meaning "bright moon"). She was one of the most famous gisaengs in the Joseon Dynasty, and gisaengs (or "kisaengs") were girls and women from socio-politically outcast, lower class, or even slave families who were trained to be courtesans, providing artistic entertainment and conversation to men of the upper class... And though there were different periods, laws, and discourses on the relationships to prostitution as well as sexual exploitations and violence, they were carefully trained and frequently accomplished in the fine arts, poetry, and prose, and although they were of low social class, they were respected as educated artists. Hwang Ji-Yi was one of the most influential gisaengs that have inspired many modern medias of storytelling... It was said that Hwang Ji-Yi refused to follow social norms for women to marry and chose the life of a gisaeng, giving her the freedoms and access to learn not only dance and music, but also art, literature, and poetry - topics that were not normally taught to young women during that time. Copied below is one of the only preserved example of her sijo (traditional Korean poems/verses):

冬至 섯달 기나긴 밤을 한 허리를 잘라 내어

春風 이불 아래 서리서리 넣었다가

어론님 오신 날 밤이여든 구뷔구뷔 펴리라.

in loose poetic translations to...

I will divide this long November night

and coil by coil

lay it under a warm spring blanket

and roll by roll

when my frozen love returns

I will unfold it to the night.

    And I remember the last episode of the 2006 Korean drama series, where Hwang Ji-Yi asks a man who was a teacher/academic/philosopher in the community for answers to being an artist in grief; The man sits down with her to have tea, referring to the dried flowers and tea leaves as the teacher he seeks when faced with existential doubts. Thus before they drank the tea to end the night, Ji-Yi watched a decayed and dried chrysanthemum flower opens and blossoms once more... She left a note in the morning for the man to thank him for his teachings of ego-death, and unpacked the lesson of relearning/embracing ordinary life as art before understanding, practicing, and aiming for extraordinary performances or artistic crafts. I was watching/taking this in at age 7-9, and I still come back to this 2006 series for this moment/teaching... Why do we create when we’ve not blossomed ourselves ? I ask this more and more, now especially in these moments after dropping out of University, like how the final episode started with Ji-Yi leaving the giseangs' corridors and fences to first find inspirations for art, but then she found aspirations to find herself instead. I know that deinstitutionalization will always be part of my journey forward and beyond, even if they were ways I had learnt to survive. I now understand that perhaps having potentials in academia was really just potentials of being a model immigrant with the violent bonuses of tokenization, and I don’t want to assimilate any longer. I’ve always been the most good at feeling even if people reject or repress theirs. I want to be good at feeling again, I want to play and care again, I want to feel my body to love and embrace again. With no dissection but just empathy; with no analysis and just practice. I remind myself each day, as I do the bare minimum to get by, while still making time for things like community events, friends, and family - that caring for and growing relationships is indeed my work and my current practice of art/craft, as I remember my high school art teacher saying that “art is about relationships”. Thus I say blossom not bloom because it refers to the whole process of blooming, even after it’s peak, as well as a reference to more than just one flower blooming, especially flowers on a tree or bush... Art has been a way for me to blossom for the world even as I decay, and I used to create for release but now I create for grief. I dream of creating for joy, but often I don’t know how when I don’t feel it long enough to hold. And yet, I still breathe softer each night trying to hold the sky...

"you broke the ocean in

half to be here

only to find nothing that wants you"

- Immigrant by Nayyirah Waheed

    I remember sitting in front of the TV playing Disney Channel to repeat lines after lines, trying hard to soften my accent after people at school making fun of it. I remember being asked to eat outside the portable classroom because someone complained about the smell of my homemade dumplings. I remember the ways I distanced myself from my family, from food to language to spaces. I would do anything to rewind time to hug myself and them, to remind myself of how beautiful it is to be an immigrant, how humbling it is to be a guest, and how honouring it is to offer anew... Now like a seed dropped by a bird that flew across seas, I still sit in solitude with the ways my family are moving back to Taiwan for good during this pandemic. Not that I was ever close with my blood family, especially after I came out and moved to the city, but now I feel the need to hold onto my roots more than ever with being the only one here. I have been slowly trying to reroot and connect, but now it seems impossible stranded alone continents away... So I grieve, and I reroot here on stolen lands with many of my friends and chosen family still not knowing much about Taiwan, nor the original caretakers of this land. Thus we continue to un- and relearn in and from Tkaronto, I honour my mermaid journey from the island of Taiwan to Turtle Island, and I embrace the blossom of my time here even in grief. It's like after 10 years in Canada that people start to forget that I'm not from here, even if I belong, even if I start to learn the media and cultural references that I wasn't here to witness, even if I start to understand the meanings of slangs and local sayings, I still wonder if the same curiosity and understandings are offered to me... I remember during a drive back in high school with my mother that she asked me if I ever felt truly accepted by our white neighbours and peers, even my friends, and I understood why she would only make friends with other immigrant aunties and perhaps why she's deciding to move back home just a little bit more. I say my family love but don't like each other, it becomes bittersweet for me to accept the ways my family care for me without ever understanding, agreeing, nor aligning with me. And over the years I have learnt to celebrate and embrace our differences, as who better than immigrants, to identify and practice the love in-between the gaps of knowledge, the distance of borders, as well as the silences that come with a traveled and tired body... Thus I often lay my body to rest, for many would not understand the aches and longing I embody; I lay my body to rest on this sick and stolen land as I cry, hoping to water the cracks between concretes I still miss playing in the rivers back home. I say home is wherever water flows, but here I am with water as still as a mirror for me to only remember. So I will continue to weep, and remember...

"Immigrants came to these shores bearing a legacy of languages, all to be cherished. 

But to become native to this place, if we are to survive here, and our neighbours too, 

our work is to learn to speak the grammar of animacy, so that we truly be at home..."

- Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer

    Animacy meaning alive, and to call this living place my home is a generous and comforting offer but also a violent one while Indigenous people still don't have sovereignty... As the moon softly fills that I shift my agency to gratitude, because it was Black/Indigenous, queer, and trans folks who have held me when I needed solidarity and chosen family the most. It is my responsibility to work towards contributing reparations as long as I occupy and breathe on Turtle Island. However it is not just gratitude but also still grief, as I feel my language, memories, and cultural knowledge slip out of my finger tips each day, I hope to make myself ideally helpful, but at least aware of the justice that's needed for Tkaronto and its first peoples. As Indigenous people have taught me love and elders have been ever more gracious in embracing newcomers, it is our duty to show up and give back, as reconciliation is dead without land back... So I grieve and give thanks, under this full blood moon in Taurus just after the lunar eclipse, I write this final blossom for this blog after 8 years. It has been the most humbling, messy, and honouring journey of storytelling. I look back and witness myself outgrowing myself: word after word and moons after moons; I remember the times I searched for myself through softer words and in hopes softening this world. Now like a dehydrated flower reblossoming in the waters of Scorpio sun, and under the full blood moon in Taurus, I grieve and I give thanks to the trees and land protectors, the wind and water walkers, the fire keepers, and the hearts in solidarity across all seas. And as we blossom again, we take soft care and rest, so we sustain, together beyond timelines of violence and uncertainties... We will blossom, again.

    I remember arriving in "Canada" on August 18th 2011, shivering and unused to the colder chills of a summer ending. I remember the 4 of us living in a motel room for 2 months, I remember not having an address to write down on the first day of school when they asked for my home. I remember this house for 10 years now, even though I moved to the city in August/September 2017 for university; I remember not being able to wake up from this bed, tears wetting my sheets every morning, I remember wanting to die. I remember not knowing myself, nor the world. I remember screams and shattered glass, I remember punched holes in my walls and steps on my chest, I remember crying myself to sleep every night... I remember the violence around and within this house, now almost empty, but I can still hear the walls weep. I remember leaving in the nights only to come back bruised and used, I remember my virginity lost somewhere along the suburban curbs, I remember surviving violence in cars after cars, moons after moons... I remember surviving violence in this house, within myself, and out in this world. Yet still I remember an abundance of unconditional love, community care, and mutual-aid. I hope we don't just remember, but continue to dream of the possibilities that we deserve, because that's how I've lived beyond survival. And even if I still cry, I don't want to cry alone anymore... I want to grow and blossom with the world once more, again and again, moons after moons. And tonight with this full moon finale, I dream for us to stay soft, as "love is a moontime teaching" (Billy Ray-Belcourt). 

New Year New Moon

TW/CW: future-fatigues, mental health,

eating disorder, and grey-suicidality 

    Sometimes, i don't know how to feel alive: I try holding on to the moments of love, yet still I forget how to feel a breath... Days blending with purpose blurring - tears brewing on sheets with body aching in my sleep. Exhausted; suicidal unrest in house arrest, i try walking to the waters to stay alive... to remember that at last and least there's still the moon, no matter if my heart is far from full: the moon reminds us that we are whole...

"That's all anybody can do right now. Live. Hold out. Survive. 

I don't know whether good times are coming back again... 

But I know that won't matter if we don't survive these times."

- Octavia E. Butler

    Future-fatigue is a term I've been using a lot in my writings both academically and poetically, as in times like these I still search for the softness within to reimagine and dream. Such worldly violences and instabilities urge for re-imagination and organization, first with rest and recovery of course but where do we begin ? It is time that we move forward while re-examining the ways we exploit and claim justice and healing without actually committing. I believe that it must start with brutal reflections thus reseeding empathies in our humanities. And if only I could believe that I'll be here to witness it all too, but I'm tired, and my hope within has been so burnt out that I can not believe in anything but this moment of a breath. I don't know how to believe in a freedom that I often can not feel; I can only dream that those beyond will bask in the glory that my mothers and sisters before had birthed... Thus this breath is for all of those after. Perhaps not living for myself is just another dance with my imposter syndromes, as it still contributes to the self-loathing narratives of not feeling/being enough, thus again neglecting my own needs of survival justice and healing... This pandemic has really forced my psyche into shadow work, into ruthless reflections and analysis of myself as well as my relations with the world. I miss the sun, as at times I feel so intensely and internally that I don't know how to feel light anymore. I couldn't help but wonder of ways to love the moon without being the moon...

    I cry and try to write, trying to feel alive. Yet it's different now than before when I wanted to die, where I was grieving again and again. Now I feel more numb but anxious, maybe more hopeful, but still unsure, like walking through a tunnel I feel as if I'm close to something but I don't know what is. It feels like a moment of decisions, of planning and preparing, even if I'm uncertain of what for. I've been reading more, which on one hand fills me with resonance and empathy, especially when I'm reading other trans Black, Indigenous, and people of colour's words through survival and healing, but on the other hand I feel overwhelmed with thoughts/triggers and often discouraged to write my own words/stories/response down. Perhaps my story isn't needed/wanted when there's already so many out there, and maybe I'm not needed/wanted to be a storyteller... Yet I must try to remind myself that there must be a space for all of us, and that hierarchal or exclusive ideals/structures are violent legacies of the colonial-patriarchy and capitalism in which interrupts/disrupts our social-empathies to rise up together as a community/collective. I am a storyteller through softness, and no matter if I drown or breathe, may my words be the evidence of my growth, my fight, and my love... 

    There are days when I cannot eat, and nights where I cannot sleep. It's times like these that I feel like I am indeed alive but not living. My thoughts start consuming me as I lose appetite and sleep; force-feeding myself and smoking til I pass out, I have impulses of deleting traces and data to just disappear, to erase all my writings and offerings for the public, to just finally sleep and start over. That's it. Maybe I'm not trying to actively die anymore - I'm trying to start over. I want to feel better, I want to love better, I want us to breathe better, and softer... Thus I meditate and pray for us to breathe softer and softer so we don't break. As newness requires softer practices with harder commitments, perhaps it all begins like planting a seed. Even in 2021 I still am a flower asking why I deserve to bloom, and when unanswered by the world now I must search for purpose within. First by seeding then watering, softly waiting through each phase of rebirth and regrowth as we re/unlearn again through circumstances that call for greater love and care for each other. 

City Blues: Melancholy

CW/TW: mentions of death, grief, trauma, homelessness,

mental health, sexual violence, suicidal ideations...

"Later that night, I held an atlas on my lap,

ran my fingers across the whole world, 

and whispered, 'where does it hurt ?'

It answered: everywhere

everywhere,

everywhere..."

- Warsan Shire

          I can't stop crying, anywhere and everywhere in the city - whether in an empty room waiting to be furnished despite/among economic uncertainties, or while walking to the harbour waterfront in socio-political anxieties: she is wilting but still waiting and meditating on love. Downtown Tkaronto reminds me of growing up in Taipei with all walks of life on the streets and traffic sounds all night-long. It reminds me of back when I was dreaming of New York City too, of how I envisioned a femme searching for love and herself among skyscrapers/city greens always in style... However, the city can still be cold and lonely in such warming Spring, especially with me growing into more a community server and observer against capitalism instead of an advocate/lover for a comfortable city/urban life... I see neighbours wrapping barbwires around trees - drawing lines of difference and constructing barriers of defence in our own backyards, thus I pray for what suffering must the trees feel and endure because of our egotistic needs/desires ? I ordered a new bed because I don't know how to stop crying on a mattress that I've been ra*ed on. I have become so tired, even in my sleeps - I feel as if I have forgotten how to dream... I called my mother crying after midnight apologizing for moving away, asking if I deserve and if my body is worth buying a queen-sized bed... I don't know how to function or keep up with violence, the world is burning/fighting and yet people are still walking animals past humans sleeping on benches. I feel and become exhaustion: I scroll/type on screens for scattering heartbeats; I hold onto my device tight as if its my last breath to post, to share, to repost, to donate, to check-in, to rant, to cry, to rot, and to numb... I scroll past hours and days, triggers and needs for a break, a meal, and/or even a breath.

"Take Care & Take Rest, as

The Revolution needs you after to

Rebuild the world..."

- @theoriginaldijah

          Looking back, my mother had always held her children while running towards the unknown for safety and peace - from capitals of Taiwan/Singapore/Malaysia then to the rural suburbs of white silence in 'Canada'. Yet maybe its also why I feel that I must come back to the collective pains for salvation - thus challenging the comforts of avoidance while constantly confronting settler-colonial privileges. This is not just about knowing people in situations anymore, it's about living among situations and witnessing suffering daily: rotting from the inside out eating meals only after seeing someone go through garbages for food... I wonder of when/how we humans had become so trashy while claiming to have class and with righteousness slowly digesting inside - eating each other's empathy as feasts like the lands we looted. It has taken me weeks of solitude with my impostorism to understand again the magic/pains of surviving through the in-betweens... I remember last summer when I was concerned with unemployment and unstable housing thus a sex worker then a survivor from encountering ra*e and assaults. I remember how it was other sex workers who have fed me, how it was other queer/trans femmes of colour who have supported me with funds and support. I remember how it was black women/femmes who taught me resistance and it was two-spirit/queer/trans indigenous folks who have taught me resilience and joy. I would not have known care and love as a storyteller and as an immigrant trans woman/femme without the communities still constantly hurting but giving... Thus now I continue listening from the back rows while supporting the front-lines during these difficult times demanding for social justice. Now that we know better, we must do/be better. Though this is what many of us have been preparing, studying, waiting for. It is an important note for all allies to know that no matter the contexts: we are guests upon arrival while our hosts are already tired.

          Moving into downtown and (trying to) moving on from a heartbreak - I am becoming tired of crying to sleep in melancholia only to wake from an ambulance praying/mourning myself back to sleep. I am exhausted of witnessing constant police patrol and officers harassing folks experiencing substance-withdraw or homelessness. It worries me to hear sirens and it angers me to see cop cars; I feel sick watching a "Queer-Eye" makeover episode for a person experiencing homelessness while knowing/seeing too many experiencing unstable housing on a daily. I'm tired of balancing in-between lines/circles/experiences of contrasting politics and priorities... I don't know how to feel while witnessing and accessing both lifestyles of privilege and survivals of marginalization. I am angry that I have "educated" peers who would tell me to report to the police after I've been ra*ed and asked what to do if their cars get stolen when we advocate for defunding the police/military. I am upset that many people can still wake up oblivious and go out with full safety/access; I am disappointed that most still search for comfort and individualistic joys with such ignorance as bliss, while others are at the front-lines and us as allies supporting and also reflecting on how we can/must do better... Yet the burdens of educating our (privileged) peers and deepening one's actioning allyship is no labours of those already fighting but ours still listening. And the most uncomfortable conversations just may be the ones in our classrooms, friend/peer-groups, families within homes and other private spheres of traditions. Though we should also be mindful of our capacities, triggers, and possibilities of facing violence while being marginalized allies as well... My mental health capacities have been at a new low and I am really trying to cope/survive with the suicidal ideations, internal doubts of worth, and self-harming/destructive tendencies, especially during these times of extra uncertainties. I feel both hopeful and hopeless, as Turtle Island (North America) may not afford a revolution with such majorities of white middle-class, but then isn't it the time to reimagine freedoms and elevating/expanding notions of organizing ? Through my weeks of internal spiral and patterned explorations on humanity and justice, I always come back to the poetics/politics of death, thus I know the answer has to be love... As it is empathy that will lead us to the light, no matter how hard the fight; and it is only through love that we bring light into life.

"... I have died so many times

So when I told you that loving you almost makes life worth it I was not joking. 

When I tell you that loving you almost makes me forget 

how much I hate myself, It is not poetry. 

Loving you is taking all of the love I could never give myself and putting it to good use. 

It is reminding myself that if someone can love a dying thing this way, 

can hold the Lazarus of my body and give thanks for the way it holds back -

if someone can kiss the scars administer the pills absorb the bad days and 

wake up smiling next to me, then I can try to breathe again...

Because self-love does not always come first. Or second. Or even ever. 

But your love be the guardrail on the edge 

be the drawers that hide all the sharp things 

be the body that carries my collapsed frame into bed 

be the flowers you bought; because even though 

they are dying too they still dance...

Love will not heal me, will not wipe my slate of my body clean - 

I will always be a woman of wounds of rope-mark neck and melted skin. 

Love will not heal me; but it will hold my hand if I ever heal myself and 

maybe teach me a joke that I can stay alive long enough to laugh at...

I love you,

enough to want to 

love myself too..."

- Nayo Jones: Healing

Community Resources/Actions/Reflections:

2020 Toronto Police Budget - Call For Action/Defunding Template

Justice for Regis: NOT ANOTHER BLACK LIFE

The answer to police violence is not 'reform'. It's defunding.

What public health experts want critics to know about why they support the protests

Journalist and writer Desmond Cole calls for Toronto Police Service to be defunded

So after we abolish prisons and policing...then what?: A Black Feminist Dialogue

Indigenous Youth Outreach

A Fund for Black-led Mental Health Supports

Moving In & On

("Solitude" by Warsan Shire)

"God, my alone feels so good, but lately I’ve craving something more, something deeper

I want love. But not just any kind of Love,
no, I want a love so deep it’d make the ocean jealous.

But I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude...

You must love me for everything I’m worth,

and then some..."

          Why loving has been so painful, like embracing a rainbow only to be left with the wind ? Maybe love will always be painful for "I'm lonely so I do lonely things"; Maybe love will always be bitter when I don't love myself thus a bittersweet lesson of self-preservation... Then "I was still lonely so I did even lonelier things," and "I had to leave [because] I felt lonely when he held me..." Maybe I wasn't ready for love, but perhaps the lesson also had its timing. I remembered saying I would never sleepover at a mans, and funny how now I still cry myself longing to be held: "Forgive me, I was lonely so I chose you. I'm a lover without a lover; I'm lovely and lonely"... Now that I have tasted and felt love, I still fear myself in love ironically when love has been what's keeping me alive as well. The truth is that I'm afraid of my solitude, but I also know that without loving myself first by example, the world will never learn to carry my heavy heart... However, sometimes I wonder if maybe the lesson's never to teach the world but to just practice the art of self-love, to not just write poetry but to actually believe that "I belong deeply to myself" ("34 Excuses For Why We Failed at Love" by Warsan Shire).

          I'm afraid of moving on; I'm afraid of not being loved, I'm afraid of not loving enough, I'm afraid of not being enough... I pray for vulnerability to lead me onto paths of freedom, I meditate on the nights of feeling hopeless and I honour the rivers I've cried to survive. Yet I must do better, I have to... Instead of crying and holding myself through darkness, the lesson is perhaps to love myself through it, to embrace myself no matter the worth. As like the moon, we don't always feel full but we are still loved and deserving of light, no matter the phase...

          I'm also afraid of moving in, as I'm moving into the city for June, finally, but still during a pandemic. I always make decisions my mother questions, but I tell myself that the uncertainties of others only make my mission more deeply personal. I'm not to be understood by reasons, but to be by feelings. I know I make decisions to constantly challenge my comfort zones, almost as if I don't allow myself to have comfort zones... Virgo in both Sun & Moon: being good is not/never good enough; there is always a work in progress. Maybe it's positive to obsess over self-betterment and improvement, as my processes so far have been just studying/working as worth and rotting slowly at home... I need change, close to community, and compassion. I need a room above earth, I need sunlight, I need to start planting and growing the gardens I have been planning. I want a new room and bed, a new start, a new chapter. And I wish this time I know it's not to run away but to resettle/refocus/relearn of loving my own solitude, in all phases again...

          What do I deserve ? Why does a flower deserve to bloom ? ... I'm afraid of not being happier after I've moved aboveground, but isn't it unfair ? I know happiness to be one's responsibility but for me it has only felt like a burden. Maybe I'm getting too comfortable in my sadness, thus unsafe in solitude... The lesson of this Spring/Summer becomes a soft reminder, of patience and healing as I start to plant/water my garden within. I come to slowly realize that it is never too late for a wilting houseplant, to dream/plan of love, freedom, and light.

"... Remember that I want to be loved as deep as the ocean, but 

Remember that I am like the ocean -

I can slip through your fingers, but manage to hold up an army of ships

Kiss me, hold me, love me, but tell me if you’re not up for it...

I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude"

- "Solitude" by Warsan Shire

My First Man/Love/Relationship

("For Women Who Are 'Difficult' to Love" by Warsan Shire)

          I hesitate with the idea of having someone close and intimate. I'm scared to rot comfortably in someone's comforts, to make a home out of human desperate for care... Yet it really comes when you least expect it: the pains of loving and the pains of loneliness meet me here at the intersections of both memories and imagination. I am thankful, for those who have helped given me lessons/stories of love in my life, even if it is through crying then understanding... I'm also humbled by loving/being loved, as I will always have more to give from within for those too concerned/occupied with survival to fill in substance, to love/be loved fully. And yet I still apologize for my trial-and-error in loving myself deeper thus caring for others better, as I shall then continue to (re/un)learn through loving beyond.

Me: "... but you're not a criminal."

Him: "baby... I'm a Black man in America"

          I remember our first night together last August: cuddling/sleeping naked, kissing and sharing stories of our past, holding each other tighter... No sex, even though he had already made me feel so safe in his arms, he knew of a soft night was what I needed. It was just weeks after I was ra*ed, and it wasn't the first time encountering a man of complicated pasts either. A rough intellect I would say, troubled with memories of societal neglect that still haunts him until today. And not the first time I have people who I care about having experiences of street violence, financial/housing instability, childhood traumas...etc but as lovers I felt like it began as trauma-bonding/trading/sharing, and I was scared of a toxic attachment... like between my parents.

          About 8 months of learning each other's touch: he shared knowledges of herbal/crystal meditation/healing, I shared poems and political imaginations, continuing conversations about both the intersections and differences of black/trans lives, and how our sexualities are impacted by society. I remember fighting into 3AM about the usage/violence of fetishization and porn productions, but I also remember him holding me doing breathing exercises at 5AM when I shook with flashbacks and panic attacks... He is older, his economic ambitions remind me of my father and his brothers, his aggression reminds me of men and men before but he is different: he is goofy/funny, always trying to make me smile, he's smart and secretly soft deep inside - only when no one else is around... I asked him often about me not feeling prioritized/cared-for and why he even loves me, he would asked me why I can't just be more patient and "chill". Women/femmes spend their lives waiting for loved ones, and maybe selfish but I can not wait for change nor peace, not here at "home". He overworks and hustles hard on wheels around the city, and though unrelated but I hate how he never uses a wallet so his things are just everywhere in his pockets/bag. I don't know why I encounter and entertain so many deliverymen, both of goods and drivers of people... It's a lot to unpack, and as a trans woman/femme of colour who have very limited subjects of interests/attraction after eliminating tranny-chasers of fetishization, old (and mostly white) sugar daddies, and "discreet" married men, I find myself left with also a margins of men and masculine folks of complex backgrounds/stories. I dislike patterns of heteronormativity in my connections of intimacy, and I really am open to more possibilities beyond cis-men, especially when trans-masculine folks are sexy in the city and some butch woman/femmes have gotten me more open minded about my own romantic attractions as well... Yet as long as I am with a cisgender man, there becomes layers of socialized-heteronormativity and internalized-homophobia to unpack (yes even with queer men too), especially in a positionality of a trans woman without bottom surgery and for if/when the connection ever becomes sexual (even though most are already lustful due to the fetishizing reality of transhood after colonialization, often even more desired without bottom surgery for the fantasy of a secret cock).

          I started to be aware of my connections/relationships/encounters with racialized cis-men and their stories/struggles, especially when I also push to have more personal/emotional conversations. Often I find cis-men to open up not only because I try my best to create a safe space but also because perhaps their time with a trans woman/femme becomes an escape from the burdens of cis-heteronormative hyper-masculinities, especially as racialized cis-men, migrants, as black men... Their stories struggling with masculinity is not mine to ever share or use as public analysis, but I dare to be truthful to the narratives I've encountered/involved with as so many trans mothers and sisters have been hurt/killed from just loving cis-men, waiting for masculinities to (re/un)learn and change. Maybe a selfish project of coping with past sexual violence, maybe desperate for stories/evidence of humanization/empathy or an allyship over sadness/loneliness/survival... I find my attraction towards trauma not a romantic issue with relational subjects while definitely involving and impacting intimate relationships, but as a toxicity deeply rooted in my survival methodologies navigating self-love and stupid poetic-hopeless-romantic self. Thus really, I thought I would not fall in love just yet... til I do, hard.

Him: "don't worry, I'm eating right now... consuming love from you."

          He supported me with herbs and groceries, and I would support him financially and with accessibility here and there also. The heaviness of such love made me grow cold, and I began to realize how loving/caring words and company won't feed a person or pay one's debt. Nor could any amount of reassurance can settle my mind when the people I care about are hungry/unsafe. I was exhausted/lonely for waiting: worried daily wondering if he's safe on the road, if he has eaten, and if he has slept enough, etc. Such relationship has confronted me with harsh truths of societal/economic as determination of priority... How can I love and convince a person to pause/breathe when capitalism chases them day and night ? What is my care and allowance of access worth to their survival and how can we do better, for each other and together ? Like the ways me and my sisters support each other, like the ways the community feeds me with both resources and teachings, and like the ways we can continue loving/caring for each other: I knew we had to become partners/allies/friends, anything but lovers...

"I know my love,

It's forgiving

It's gentle

It's long-suffering

It's tucking away my tears and listening to

your reasons for hurting me

It's piecing together your childhood trauma

and feeling sympathy for the darkness you still carry

My love will remove the light from my eyes

to find beauty in all your dark places 

My love is deep and beautiful and sacred...

But my love

My love no longer lives in the hands of those who abuse it

My love belongs to me."

- Aschel St Ville (@sabrinajpoetry)

          I realize now that I must not thank him for meeting after I was ra*ed but to thank myself... However, I do thank him for holding me holier and wiping my tears away, reminding me that while I am searching for softness in others, that softness is already in me too... My first relationship didn't have room for romance, no time to pause, always on the go, and maybe selfishly I wanted superficiality like dates of youth simple pleasures. Somewhere on the dance floor of marginalization we found each other, holding onto one another in times of need but isn't love more than survival ? Yet in explaining my decision to break-up in the simplest way is the struggle between attraction and compatibility. Especially when he's a virgo too... where he is growing a mountain and I'm planting a garden, thus friendship/partnership is what I've proposed. He is wiser and much more understanding, it has been hard to move on from my feelings for him while still keeping in touch and caring closely. I can't help but wonder if it's because he needs my resources too, yet it's unfair that I often in analysis question my attraction to him as care after violent circumstances, and his attraction to me as accessibility... The emotions of/from such connection have been strong but unstable, and I am still learning to process/cope without turning too cold/analytical/cynical.

Him: "babe I'm a dreamer not a thief."

I know baby, I know...

          He has always been a dreamer for freedom as I am for love. I will miss us sharing lessons of life/culture/history with each other through intimacy, yet someday maybe again, when we're better and more stable. I will always remember and miss waking up to him smoking a joint and holding me close, him making jerk-chicken quesadillas for brunch, and him gone to the store for juice. He is the first man who has taught me of truly loving/being loved, and he was open to change/grew/blossomed so much along the way as well... I know we will continue supporting each other and navigate our feelings and circumstances, but I know I need a break from romantic intimacy and committed relationships for now. It breaks my heart but he also said that one day I'm going to find someone "softer, more relaxed, and not pressured from goals like an animal"... We didn't go to the mall nor markets/festivals because crowds and families could be triggers; we didn't do valentine's day because he wanted/needed to work. Yet I was understanding while constantly checking my privileges as well; I have nothing but gratitude as we did make it our little universe even just spending time inside smoking and ordering in take-out (with only occasional trips to nature). We were my first love story and I will always treasure the memories of us as lovers while imagining/practicing for love/care beyond...

My first love story: where

A flower sends her kisses to

A mountain with petals in the wind,

And the mountain embracing her 

with dancing leaves flowing from streams

...

It ends beyond attraction and compatibility

in support and solidarity:

We become family,

We build community,

We (re/un)learn to love better -

A breakup or wakeup, for

An ending is but another start

...

We wake up today and tomorrow:

Loving ever so softer, for

Those after us and to the world/beyond

20th: Birthday Blues

          19 still surviving 2019; turning 20 now, and then... what ?
Birthday: what is it really ? We come together to celebrate one's first and last breaths, while we ignore the reality of those struggling to breathe, to live, to survive with dignities through such cruel modern humanities... It is difficult for me to celebrate another cycle of survival when it feels as if my next breath could be my last and me being okay with it. A dead girl walking, still trying to appreciate life...

          20 years ago today, a baby was born not a boy. She has died, so many times... rebirthing again and again. 20 years later, a woman was born, from herself and to herself. 20 years old, I am so exhausted... of our lives not being ours, of our love not being ours, of our beauty not being ours, and of our death not being ours... I am tired of surviving as a commodity and not living as human. I am trying to learn/unlearn joy, in the means of my heart and not others. 20 years of a broken heart, trying to learn/unlearn notions of happiness through the full spectrums of humanity. 20 years of crying, wondering of myself in light and of healing through the dark. 20 years of searching for softness, slowly realizing that she holds the softness in which she needs to not only survive, but thrive...

          I will forever hold gratitude and space for the queer/trans coloured women/girls/femmes that came before me, specifically for the 2-Spirit/Trans Indigenous folks and their native teachings of gender diversity. And I will continue to survive, learning/unlearning to hold love and space for myself, as I owe my thrive to the queer/trans coloured women/girls/femmes after me. It becomes difficult for me to celebrate the life of self when often it has felt as if theres not a deserving self at all. Yet when one drowns in her own shadows, she survives through breathing for not herself but for us... Healing, is loving you all so much that I start loving myself too. Happy Birthday, stay alive sis.

Happy Birthday (Poem)

I see you,

in the wild daisies blooming under the summer sun.

I hear you,

in the soft ukulele strings played at a café open mic.

I smell you,

in the old polkadot dress that you've given me as a piece of your promise...

Your promise, of a friendship.

Your promise, of a forever.

Your promise, of a sisterhood.

Our promises become memories,

but through the bitter-sweet,

I'll always remember you.

I'll remember you...

by slowing down my footsteps, to admire the blooming daisies,

to smile under the warm summer sunshine.

I'll remember you...

by closing my eyes when I hear the sweet indie melodies
while holding my own broken body still trying to heal, still trying to love.

I'll remember you...

by wearing the colours that you have brought out from deep within,

knowing that I am, "the most beautiful girl" someone has ever seen.

While time passes, the promises between us rust violently,

the words between us blur uncontrollably,

but may our memories fade quietly, gently, and kindly...

You and I,

will forever be the softest Poetry I've come to know...

Let Love Grow...

I drown myself in bleach trying to erase the mistakes that I've made.

Trying to die, just in order to be born again...

Why? Why do I murder myself so mercilessly,

Why do I feel the need to birth myself once more?

Who am I but a child, a creation of Mother Nature,

Who am I to have the power to birth myself again?

"You can be better. And I want you to be a better person..."

"But you fucked up here, with me, with everyone else..."

"So take this pill, and apply it to others."

Onto the sandy beach, and into the fresh cold water

I asked for cleansing...

Under the stars, and lit by the soft moonlight

I begged for forgiveness...

How, how can I be a good person?

How, how can I be a better person?

How, how can I be perfect?

How can I be loved?

I've tried to make a home out of myself,

yet whenever one leaves,

I burn the house down.

If one doesn't love me, then I must do better.

I must start over...

It's tiring... to start over.

I won't this time, I promise.

I will learn to grow flowers out of my scars,

and to water the wounds.

Let Love Grow within,

then Blossom.

          Thank You, to everyone who have helped me grow, and those who have stood by me through this journey of self-discovery. I'm off to University now, starting a new chapter of my life, a new adventure. I will hope to continue as an Activist spreading awareness for Queer and Trans Inclusiveness. And I will also continue to practice Self-Care and Self-love, yet it isn't a fast-moving process. My Mental Health has been getting better finally, and I'm full of emotions knowing that I'll be moving to the Greater Toronto Area for University of Toronto Scarborough. It's an exciting time, but also an anxious one, I'll try to keep you all updated by continue to write and post !

My Virginity... ?

Content Warning: Sexual Explicit Language

          I'm just a Sexually-Liberated Woman with a Dick having a dilemma...

          So remember that I shared with y'all on how I sucked my first cock when I was in Montreal, Quebec for a family weekend using Grindr ? Well, update: I'm no longer on Grindr, but I am on OkCupid and Tinder. Now, I did meet up with several guys in the past few months and have had my first kiss as well ! I love a good make-out session, one of my favourites on the menu ! And listen to this, I did let a guy try to put the tip of his penis in my butt while we were hanging out/hooking up at his place, but it didn't go anywhere. He didn't have actual lube and I was too anxious. It hurts like a motherfu*ker !!! Y'all, anal sex is no joke. Not only do I need to prepare myself physically, but also mentally and emotionally as well. So yeah don't worry, I'm still a "virgin" ! I have not yet had full-on penetrative sex y'all, calm down. Though let's be honest here, I'll probably lose my "virginity" this summer before going to university.

          A part of me is resisting because as some of you may know, I'm actually a hopeless romantic ! I love romance, I love kisses, cuddles, and all the cutesy little things, but I've also kind of given up... See, I was even gonna wait to have my first kiss with someone who'll make it all special and "life-changing". But now I feel like I might even lose my "virginity" to a hookup ?! It feels wrong but also... "virginity" isn't a real physical thing, it's a social construct. And I'm a horny sexually-liberated girl who just need some dicks ! Seriously, it's an honest struggle for me... And as sexually-driven and liberated I feel, there's still gonna be a part of me that's a little disappointed with myself for giving up on romance, on "love" if we're dissecting it into a battle between "love" and "lust".

          I don't want to give up, I want to believe that I deserve romance, cute dates, kisses and cuddles...etc. It's just difficult being in a small town with boys and men not seeing me as a "real woman", treating transgender girls as a kinky fetish, that somehow we're not "dateable" just because we're not cisgender. I would talk to guys who's all romantic and flirty, asking me out on dates, but the second he learns that I'm transgender, now I'm just "cute enough" to "chill with"... It's so difficult to realize that I deserve more when all the attention I've been given is purely lustful and sexual, sometimes even in degrading ways. Maybe I'm just not pretty enough to date ? Is it because I'm plus-sized ? No, No, Nooo ! I will no longer allow my mistreatments to determine my self-worth. I shall remind myself that I deserve love, I deserve positive attention, that I, as a fat Transgender Woman of Colour deserve Romance !!!

          Also, the fact that even if I am sexually-liberated, the society and the system that we live under is not gonna let me have control or be as powerful as men. I will need to empower myself and know what I want, then fight for it. #Resist !

Bey & I: Challenging the Patriarchal System

Disclaimer: This piece is just a metaphorical comparison between my struggles against the patriarchal system as an Asian-immigrant Transgender Woman and what we've seen of Beyonce's public experiences as a black female artist, in no way am I trying to say that all BIPOC's struggles are the same nor is this piece saying that me and Queen Bey are on the same level in regards to being an activist or a social influence.

          As Malcolm X once said: "The most disrespected person in America is the black woman. The most unprotected person in America is the black woman. The most neglected person in America is the black woman." Yet how is Beyonce, a black woman in America, so successful ? Yet how is Beyonce, a black woman in America, able to be one of the most powerful and influential people in the world ? Is this really... her #BlackGirlMagic ?! Well, looking back at my years in high school, and the work of advocacy that I've done, I'm a little surprised as well. A female student gave me some feedback on the women's history month assembly that I organized, and she said that she had been talking to the school admins about having an assembly like that for months, and I was able to do because "I'm Leon". But it's not just her, many other students have told me that I'm doing stuff other people can't do, just because... I'm me ? I don't understand, I am one of the most marginalized people in the school, one of the most oppressed people under the system. Why do I have this power ?

          Well, then I thought of Beyonce's journey, and how we've both invaded the system in a way ! Before anything else, we both had to disguise ourselves. We both somehow had to fit into the system, even if it's not being "real". I came as an immigrant, yet I quickly learned English and desperately tried to hide my accents. I came out as gay and happily became a "token", the gay best friend many white cis-straight girls wanted me to be. For Beyonce, when she started her solo career, she mostly only wore wigs, not having her natural hair out. And what was even more interesting was that many of her wigs were blonde. She, as a black woman with a southern background, did not produce any music that reflected back to her communities. And most importantly, she sexualized herself, within her mainstream pop music videos, she fetishized herself for her audience. Yes, it's basically what all female pop artists have to do to be popular, but still, she gave in and made content strategically for men's liking... Then, after we've both gained power and popularity, we reveal our true identities as the woke bitches that we are ! (I don't know about Beyonce, but I was more growing into the bad bitch that I am rather than revealing it lol.) Remember after Beyonce dropped her visual album "Lemonade" ? And how the world went crazy because they didn't know how much Beyonce stood for the #BlacklivesMatter movement ? Remember when Beyonce used the Superbowl stage as a platform to pay tributes to Michael Jackson and Malcolm X ? Remember how controversial it was ?! Yep, that's my girl. Go Queen Bey ! Now, most people supported the LGBTQ+ assembly that I organized, yet the Women's History Month celebrations ? It got controversial, people got political, and comments got a lot nastier. Then, I wasn't able to make the Mental Health Awareness assembly happen... People started questioning my intention as an Activist, people wondered if I'm doing "too much", if I'm pushing the messages too hard... I even had to fight to make Pride Week happen, just because I wanted to invite Drag Queens in and perform in our cafeteria during lunchtime. Still, it happened, and yes there were backlash, but it was amazing.

          We made history !!!

          Yet even with our work of advocacy and status, we're still facing backlash. On the last day of school, I wore a scandalous sequins minidress to celebrate the ending of high school and my thick & juicy body. I was feeling myself, and I wanted to end my high school years on a good note, symbolically spreading the message of loving oneself (physically, emotionally, and mentally). Though of course I got scolded by many teachers as I've clearly violated the dress code, but most let it slip through because it's the last day of school. One teacher particular stood out, a white cisgender straight white man, spoke to me privately and expressed his concern. Now, if it was just a matter of violating the dress code and making him or other male students uncomfortable, fine, I'll take my punishments. After all, I'm still a student under the system. Yet he expressed about how he felt threatened, as he felt like if I'm challenging the system, I'm challenging him as well. Now, "threatened" ? A white man feeling challenged by a trans person of colour embracing and loving their body ? Celebrating and having pride in one's marginalized identity ? Mhm, so surprised... *rolls eyes. He even questioned me of my intent and asked why I've decided to do this on the last day of school after everything that I've contributed for the community. He felt like me dressing like this and challenging the system will ruin my "legacy"...

          As you can see, there is still so much more work to do. Even if me and Bey have really invaded the system somehow and gained some power, we are still oppressed in many ways. Allies, y'all need to do better. We all need to do better. We shall fight, we shall resist, and we will not stop until all voices are heard, and answered.

          Stay Woke, and Stay Fabulous !

       
       

Youth VIII: Chrysanthemum

          The history of yellow/orange/golden chrysanthemums dates back to China in the 15th century. The Chinese thought that the chrysanthemum flowers offered such perfection with the beautiful alignment of petals that it became the blossom of nobility. In ancient Japan, these flowers were a symbol of power and perfection, representing as the sun. Now in Asia, chrysanthemum flowers represent rebirth, especially because dried dead chrysanthemums are known to blossom again in hot water when used to make tea.

          You have been born so many times, the first when your mother gave birth to you, the second when you moved to Singapore, then when to Malaysia, then again for Canada, and then finally you birthed yourself when you came out of the closet. And throughout the years of battling with mental illnesses, you've mentally killed yourself, over and over. Yet here you are, still alive. You are a survivor and a fighter. You are one of the strongest person you know, you inspire yourself. You are beautifully imperfect, amazingly flawed, you are... you.

          Yes, this piece is written for me, by me, and dedicated to me. Yellow/Orange/Golden Chrysanthemums are my favourite kind of flowers, they're so beautifully complex, and the meaning of rebirth just speaks to me so personally. Symbolically I have died countless times, both emotionally and mentally. I have even tried to harm myself physically in the past as well. Yet I will survive, I will endure, and no matter how low I get, I know I will rise again. It's not an act or state of narcissism, I think we all should appreciate ourselves and look at the things we've overcome. I am so thankful for the things I've done, the steps I've taken to care and love myself better. I am also so proud of who I've become and the way I've grown. I'm excited to keep learning, to keep working, and to keep growing. It's now time to say goodbye to high school, and embrace a new chapter in life. It's scary, and I'm trying my best not to get swallowed by anxiety, but it's okay, because I can handle it. I know I can.

          I have and will always be grateful for those who have loved and cared for me, because I know that being there for me isn't easy. Yet I have to show some appreciation for myself as well, because even though I'm still just learning to love myself, I've trying my very best. I put so much effort into self-care, and it's finally showing. I'm getting better, and I'll be okay. For the first time ever it seems, that I can actually believe myself when I say/write that...

          I am strong. I am beautiful. I am capable. I am surviving. I, will be okay.

"Everyday, I write a poem titled 'tomorrow'. It is a handwritten list of the people I know that love me, and I make sure to put my own name at the top."

- People You May Know, Kevin Kantor

The End of High School

          It is officially the end of High School ! I never thought this day would come, but here we are. WE MADE IT !!! The last 4 years have been a roller coaster ride, I have grown so much as a student, and a person in general. Most people have seen the worst of me, and some were lucky enough to see the best of me. Are these really the "best years of our lives" ?! God I hope not. Let's pray that we will continue to rise and thrive in the future.

          I have so much to say, yet so little time... So I'll be doing a series call "Youth" starting after this, featuring some of the most influential girl-friends that I've made during these four years. It will be an emotional series, giving thanks and sending love to those who have been there for me and have inspired me. Without them, I would not be the woman that I am today.

          Before that, I want to just talk a little bit about my high school, a place that has always welcomed me with open arms. And for that, I will never be able to express how thankful I am, how much that means to me personally especially even after I came out. Also, even though I'm pretty sure the Arts program killed billions of my brain cells, I am so honoured to have been able to take part of this amazing Integrated Arts Program. I came into the school in grade 9, only majoring Visual Art, yet now I am proudly to say that I am graduating as a Visual Art major, Vocal Music major, Drama minor, and Dance minor. I have truly found my Art, and my Art is Activism. Through the areas of the arts, I was able to learn and gain different skills to apply into my work as an Activist. With Visual Art, I found myself studying the world around me, the relationships, the emotions...etc. I saw the world as a masterpiece, still yet to be finished, and it may never be perfect, but we will get there, we will try our best, we will all work on it, together. With Drama, I overcame my stage-fright, my insecurities with public speaking and owning space, claiming my presence. With Vocal Music, I found my voice, and I will continue to fight for those who's voice have been oppressed and silenced. Finally, with dance, an area that I've just started to explore earlier this year, an art form that I've been dreaming about ever since I was a little kid. Over the years, I've lost myself, unable to accept and embrace my body physically. Coming out as Trans was the first step, and dancing was the second. I'm learning to love my physical self through the dance movements and choreography, and I am so happy that the dance teachers looked past my lack of experience and gave me such opportunities.

          Thank You, to all the efforts of the dedicated teachers and wonderful students for making my High School years so rich, so full-of-memories, so beautiful, so... FABULOUS. Sending nothing but Love to all Graduates !

Senior Prom

          Prom just happened, and it was one of the most wonderful nights of my life. Everyone looked and hopefully felt beautiful, the night filled with joy and fun. It felt like the night would never end, and to myself I thought: This is the Eternal Youth, this is the Teenage Magic.

          Yet, there's still so much anxiety, so much self-doubt... I won the student-voted award of Sassiest Senior, and when my name was called, I strutted to the front of the dance floor, in my giant fluffy red ball gown. Though to be honest, I am not the sassiest senior student in the school, I am not the most confident, I am not the funniest. I know that isn't who I am but a mask, a character to hide my insecurities, my traumas, my struggles. But when my name was called, it felt so natural, it became an instinct, I slipped into my character right away and gave yet another convincing performance. Oh how my alter-ego has consumed me. An alter-ego in which I have created to overcome my stage-fright in grade 9, to feel less socially awkward, to mold myself into a crowd-favourite, an adored and dehumanizing queer-stereotype. This blog is to prove that not everything is what it seems, that behind the glitter fabulousness, I am still struggling, I am still wounded, I am still... human.

          I kept on dancing and dancing, until I see my old friends across the dance floor, the ones whom I have opened myself up to, whom I had stripped down of my alter-ego to exposed myself to... Unfortunately, it didn't work out. I bared myself naked, and I started to drown, but none of them knew how to help, none of them knew how to be there for me. And I became a "bad friend" because I wasn't able to be stable enough. I was "toxic" for calling out transphobic and misogynistic behaviour, I was "dramatic" for my mental health issues, I was... almost it seemed unable to be loved. We made promises to each other, that we would fight against the darkness, yet what happens when I become the darkness itself ? What happens if I got consumed by the darkness within me ? I felt so anxious and down I had to step out of the room, I went out to the patio to get some fresh air. I just feel so unlovable. Am I not good enough of a person ? What is wrong with me ?

          I'm getting better though, along with my medications and therapy, I'm coping. The battle against mental health is not over, and I will survive. I have to. Yet looking back, seeing all the things and the people that I have lost from just trying to survive is more than difficult. And it seems like no matter how much I've tried, I will never shed the image of my alter-ego, some people can never see me differently now. It's upsetting but it's okay, I'm graduating anyways. I'll get a chance to start over in university, to be more stable, to be more real, and to be more happy.

          Thank You to those who have celebrated Prom with me, it was an honour and an absolute pleasure. I had so much fun, and it was truly a magical night.

Dance.

          Earlier this week I had my debut dance performance on stage. I performed in three pieces and it was absolutely nerve-wrecking yet just so exciting. I wanted so much more, and I'm craving for more. I know I'm not the best dancer, nor do I have years of training and stage-experiences, plus my body isn't as fit, but I have passion. I am creative, and I love dancing with all my heart. At times, I do feel very insecure with my body-size and my lack of techniques to be dancing alongside with such talented girls in the dance program. Yet I remind myself that I've fought and auditioned for a spot here and I just need to keep dancing. Just keep dancing.

          I've always wanted to be a dancer, I've always loved using movement to express myself. Yet as the years went on, I became more insecure in my own skin. And now, I'm fighting back, I'm confronting my body and embracing it's curves and folds. I will dance, I will love and accept myself, as a fat transgender girl.

          This is also why I love the arts so much, because we can learn so much about ourselves through the different arts. I've used visual art to inspire my thoughts on life, on nature, and on the relationships between people. I've used vocal music to find my voice, not only in music yet also for activism. And now, I'm using dance to embrace my physical self, to love my flaws and to use my body for art and self-expression... for beauty, to be beauty.

Blossom.

"and here you are living,

despite it all"

- Rupi Kaur

          I was a dying Butterfly, and then a crying Mermaid, but now... 

          I'm a Flower, a Golden Flower blossoming in an eternal Spring.

          I once admitted that I hated the colour yellow because I felt ashamed and alienated to be a person of colour, to be an Asian immigrant. I wanted to belong, to fit in, to be accepted. I dreamed of drowning myself in bleach, and I desperately cut off my mother tongue, replacing the words of Chinese with English and French. Yet lately, not only have I come in terms with my gender identity, I have also really tried to reclaim my identity of being a person of colour. I have been learning to accept and embrace my beautiful Asian self and it's been quite a journey. I have not only blossomed as an Activist, but also as an individual that's finally starting to embrace myself as a whole. And you see, when I finally accept myself, the colour yellow no longer represents me. It can no longer defines me. It's a stereotype, a box to keep people in, and I've finally set myself free. The hue was there for me to embrace, a symbol for me to overcome an internal denial. I'm now different, better, I'm at a better place with myself. I'm now... Golden.

"the world gives you so much pain,

and here you are making gold out of it"

- Rupi Kaur

          This Blog will grow with me, and evolves along with my experiences. I am not afraid to change, yet the question is always, what am I losing ? Am I able to afford for such changes. I've lost people for Blooming. I've lost people for becoming Gold. Yet the women we wish to embrace and be will always cost us something, because that's how life is. And sometimes there's nothing we can do, because other people's thoughts and actions are not something we can control. At this point, I've really given up, on consistently having to defend and fight for myself in these relationships. People have always been seeing me as "the enemy", "the villain", and I am no longer able to carry this guilt with me anymore, not when it doesn't feel like I've deserved it. Maybe, if they can't understand me now, they will never. Maybe I am speaking clearly, and explaining myself logically. Maybe they're the ones with their ears closed and eyes shut. Maybe, it's time... to let go.

I’ve made Mountains with my Curves,

Rivers with my Folds, and

Flowers with my Scars.

It’s the Blossom,

of an Eternal Spring.