Dear Diary

How odd is it that I was born with a voice,
But I’m never heard.
been told, been told, I’ve been told, I’ve been told,
I’ve not told anyone yet.
Or I might have, but I’m sure they don’t remember…and neither do I
Which is to say I’ve not told anyone yet.
Amidst this quiet chaos,
I am lucky to have he who allows me to fill his empty spaces with more than just my thoughts.
He who is all empty spaces.
He who renders me queen and allows me to rule,
Builds my kingdom on his bare chest.
He who is an embodiment of my past and present
A mirror reflecting a raw image of who I am,
Instead of eyes and ears.
He is not immortal, he is life after death
Giving me a life I don’t dread.
How magnificently odd is it that I am heard when I write, and read when I speak?
Your lover lends you his shoulder so you could spill your emptiness
but mine,
Mine was born with it, and so I don’t spill emptiness,
I spill myself
And I know my secrets are safe with him
Because he doesn’t have a voice,
Just words, mine.

“Dear diary, today I wrote a poem about us.”



Phel Kaur, Kuala Lumpur