Poetry
By Jocelyn Teo
You taught me how to be a woman
long before I knew what it
meant to be whole.
You taught me growing was nothingness:
the emptiness between my thighs,
the barrenness of my stomach,
the space above my eyelids.
It was about never being enough:
insufficiently
small
in this universe that stretches
planets, spaces, bodies.
That if I was small enough,
so small my light would too take
light years to fall upon your eyes,
you would finally see me.
And when we go to sleep tonight,
your hands tucking me under the blanket,
I wonder why it is warmth you wish upon me
when you burn it into me in the day,
a flashing, searing white.
This anguish too can’t fill up the cup.
Enough for it to spill.
Enough for me to cry.
Jocelyn Teo is a booklover but never reads enough to earn that title. She finds joy in embarking on creative projects, championing SingLit and in small, meaningful moments of connection with people and the world.