XIX | Something I Wanted
❦
I haul myself up a tree,
trying to make
life difficult
for my uniformed pursuers.
It’s difficult,
unscrewing
a tight pen tip
with shaky, sweaty hands.
But I do it
before the first hand
reaches my foot.
What have I done
to make you treat me like a criminal?
I’ve swallowed
all 28 pills
when I’m yanked from the tree,
kicking,
clawing,
scratching,
biting
at my attackers.
I feel pain and panic
just like you do.
Do you
know that?
There’s a piercing
scream
(which might be me).
My vision blurs,
white figures shifting
like clouds in a time-lapse.
I have dreams too.
There’s yelling,
commands given.
Just like you.
I’m pressed against the ground,
my arm
immobilised,
every joint in my body
screeching.
Why are mine
despised by this world?
I feel the prick of a needle
then,
warmth
flowing through,
silencing
the screech.
White turns to grey,
my limbs lose feeling
and I feel myself
hauled up
like an old doll
before everything
becomes
nothing.
❦
I dreamt my first dream
in school
at eight years old
facing a piece of A3 drawing block,
coloured crayons in both hands.
The teacher asked us
to draw
our dreams of the future.
I didn’t have any dreams
before then.
Is that strange?
My classmates began
drawing
thoughtful images
on the paper
that was wider
than their arms could stretch.
They drew
all sorts of interesting dreams.
A futuristic plane.
A dragon-slayer.
A tall castle.
Houses in the sky.
President of Singapore.
I was the only one
who had no shape to my dream
only colour
on the paper
bigger than me
like the aftermath of a paintball match.
The teacher asked,
What are you drawing?
I remember telling her
‘I’m drawing a dream.’
She smiled
at me
with an expression I now recognise,
having seen it
many many times since then.
fear.
That’s nice, Fiona.
Dream.
I thought I knew what it was.
I thought
everyone else
got it wrong.
So I told the girl
next to me
that the pink person she was drawing
was not a dream.
‘It’s my dream.
‘I want to be a princess when I grow up,’
she retorted.
No, I told her,
using my crayons
to help her
turn her picture
into a kaleidoscope of colours,
‘This is what a dream looks like.’
There were
hands
in my hair,
gripping my
arm,
dragging me
from my seat.
I fell and
she scratched my face
so my eyes started bleeding.
The teacher told me
it was
just crayon
but the blood kept dripping
until I changed schools.
Was it then
that I realised
my mind
couldn’t be understood
in this world?
I have dreams too.
(Why do they look different
from all of yours?)
Dream.
Maybe
I didn’t understand it then.
But I learnt.
During therapy,
I learnt
what a dream was.
A futuristic plane.
A dragon-slayer.
A tall castle.
Houses in the sky.
President of Singapore.
Things I wanted,
things I wanted to be,
things I wanted to do,
things.
I drew
another one
before I started going to school again.
The therapist
asked
what it was:
The kaleidoscope of colour
between two rectangles.
I hesitated.
I didn’t want to be
wrong.
A sandwich.
I want to make a sandwich by myself.
She smiled
at me
with an expression I now recognise,
having seen it
many
many times since then.
That’s a nice dream, Fiona.
❦
