Lubdub

By Lydia Lim

I remember the smile of a man too old for me and who I do not want in any way but for the warmth in his eyes and approval in his soft, curled words. I remember the taste of strawberry mints in the glistening heat of the afternoon as the fan churned somewhere above. Is this all that will be left of these two years, a remnant, futile, crashing fear? I am just some wide-eyed Bambi locked up inside a human’s skin, trembling in the back of this cage. But we recognise the faint pressure of tongue to teeth, heart beating frantically in that lubdub-lubdub gasp for air. 

How many edges can a human create around themself? How many times can you trace a broken mirror with your naked hands before blood oozes out? How soft can you pretend to be, swallowed in a cushion of your pudding-flesh, and treacle-hair? How mortal am I feeling, crumpled like discarded foolscap paper and folded like that hoodie I forgot to take out of my bag? Heart beats lubdub-lubdub, and I remember something diastole, something systole, like the neon pink snap of the biology TYS, lubdub-lubdub, blink and you’ll miss it, teetering on the verge of an axis. 

By Lydia Lim