Funny how at the edge of your life, the very skill you fail to learn all come rushing to your finger tips.

I didn’t think I’d catch her. But I hid in a cupboard in her room, waiting for the opportune time to strike.

The door knob turned as she…

December 2020

I was fearful, yet hopeful of the journey that lies ahead of me. I’ve made friends and saw the foreseeable path ahead of me. Meaningful relationships, career growth, experiences that would add depth to the time I spent on this plane of existence. My skin is shedding, I’m stepping out of my shell. The taste of freedom is the flavour of the unknowns that is waiting to lift you, or lay you, which, either way is a relief.

December 2021

I am so fucking tired.

Forge ahead, again and again.

And again.

I recall the days where you held me down

We would fall into the sea bed

You wouldn’t let me drift and drown

Let alone to be left for dead

I recall the days I want to die

Not for the reasons you think you knew

You couldn’t even look…

There is a room in my house

A little red room in my house

A place where I lock myself in

It’s where the fire will rouse

I could come out unscathed

Just a little drenched in fact

But I shouldn’t have been saved

Or have my mind a least bit intact

There is a room in my house

And it wants me in again

No amount of fuel I could douse

No amount of red I could paint

Just a red room in my house

Just a room of shame

We are two souls, treading on parallel lines

Walking back and forth on our paths

Looking forward and backwards in time

One day, the path’s rotation was cut into half

There’s nowhere to go when our cards have to fold

Finally, we turned our heads and looked across

Each in our hands our baggages to hold

There’s no time for remorse, no remorse

Burdened, you said, “let go of yours so you could cross”

“How?” I asked, looking at yours.

“My hands will be free when you toss.”

I look around me, a life cut short

There’re no more lines, my home just across

Our hands freed now, there’re no remorse

It occurred to me that I have nothing to complain about.

That all the pain I have experienced up to this point was an internal strife of the personal experiences of life viewed through a skewed spectacle of how it should be lived.

And there are little blue dots in my eyes. Blind spots. Burnt pixels. Further obscuring the reality that is in front of me.

Then today I woke up in my bed, realising that I have absolutely no right to be complaining. The shame burns, just like how the sun burns my body, and the blue dots stings as it leave my eyes.


A familiar number. An invisible inscription on my head. A manufacturing date.

It’s a set of beautiful numbers. Both nine and twelve are divisible by three, which will give you the numbers of three and four. …

Kat Midori

I write casually about creepy girls and heartbreakers. Singapore.

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