The first fairy tale ever told to me,
Forgotten even before the last line, as any child would,
Was a violent melody
Fingerprints tearing through blades of grass
Bloody palms scraping across petals. 

Sung to me before I learnt to listen
With cotton surrounding my body, stuffed into ears
I am sure I must have felt small
Looking up at such a loud world
Cradled in the arms of another.

I have since grown too large for lullabies 
I lay in my bed waiting, sifting through memories
Wonder if I’d be different,
If I had remembered the song
Would I have grown quicker than I have?

I have pushed it into the soil
Infecting roots that stem from my mind, ruining the thought
Of anything other than the now
Doomed to be sewn into mud
Staining the present with the past.

I am made of every note the story told
Every white hair sprouting too early screaming the tune
Scars etching a language inherited
Yet not once ever understood
Only listened to through deafened ears

The flowers wilt to cover my eyes
Only to miss nightmares that have settled beneath them
Forcing it all to be relived 
Until the sounds become warnings
Leaving me stuck in a world too loud

As I grow older in mind and memory
With each time I bloom, in spite of the weeds against skin
I am reminded that it ended
And yet I am still left,

Singing a song, nostalgic of cotton and touch.

Inspired by the entire exhibition: ‘Mirrors of the East and West’ by May Moe. View the full collection and artist's statement here.