On writing poetry:


The Manual, Page 1.


It was simple enough:
to take a dried seed

and birth a nightingale.
Only that the work

was never explained
in great, formal details.

How would a dried seed, supposedly
dead, become a living thing?

Where would the life force
come from? Which devices

to be made? Who should I turn to
for advice? Questions were left

unseen and seeds kept turning,
nightingales soaring with their wings

almost dark enough to blend in
with the suede of the sky. 

And I am but a mere mechanic.
I know the fixing, how things

should work in the eyes
of the common crowd, how words

should flow like birds gliding
in the air, like seeds falling 

to the ground, landing on those
waiting hands. I am not

creator, examiner, the birthing mother.
It is not in me – the maternal love

for children born out of mostly frustration
and imaginative endings.

They are but expressions, feelings
conveyed naturally – they come 

and go with ease, as they should
without the assurance of knowing.

How do they work? I don’t know.
What about the structures?

I do not follow them. I merely pick
the seeds in me and let them flower

into a summer bird. The tip
of my pen touches the pages

and soon enough words become
a vessel of my emotion, feathers blue

only to the eyes of those
understanding. It was simple:

to take a dried seed,
put it into the holes on your chest

water with the ink in your veins
and let it flower, and let it fly.


Thu, 28/01/2021.
Đậu Hủ.



even if your light dims and flickers, it is still light, it is still a beacon, and this is for you.


i think we are fireflies in a jar.

at night we light up and pretend
like we can feel warmth 
radiating from within ourselves.
and in the morning when the sun rises
we sleep. our dreams fog us
like clouds, hiding us – 
hideous bodies and illusive
minds. but i remember you so vividly.
your wings fluttering, your eyes gazing,
your body sleek brown and 
cut sharp, like falling out from a mould, 
a cutter; a carefully crafted
sculpture. like there are strings
on you, controlling. around you, binding.
i think i fall in love, just once, and then
again and again, with a different you,
every time you hit the glass. 

we live in a glass jar; and the world is blinding
with light and excitement and 
madness. do you know anything outside?
no, you said. but you still try to
leave. i don’t understand you.
i don’t try to; we are different bodies,
our minds intertwine and part
and it’s not our faults; 
we are not created to feel each other,
and sometimes not even ourselves.
i would ask you the reasons
and you would hum a little.
because the world is massive, you said,
because this jar is too tiny,
because our lives are too short.
you are using big words, too big
for two little bugs, so big they are
crushing us. tell me,
have you been gutted by ambition? 
have you ever been defeated?
have you ever been destroyed? 
you look at me, longing,
beholding a past that has long gone;
and i know the answer
for the question i haven’t even asked.

when sun rises, i will kiss you goodnight.
i will hold your hands when our lights
go out and our breaths even; 

and one day i will wake up without you
and one day i will start hitting the glass.


Sun, 07/02/21.
Đậu Hủ.

portrait of a lover

Love and Other Alienations #14


Lover Of All Things Serene


the day before yesterday i painted the sky.
so this is how gouache smells like, you said
it smells disgusting. and i laughed, so vibrant
yellow and neon green and barbie pink and
sapphire martini blue are spilling
all over the floor from my mouth.
we debated over the clouds.
there was nothing as enough clouds for you
and you acted like we would insult
you late grandmother and her patch of
brown mushrooms in the backyard
if we wouldn’t put just another cloud
on the canvas. we fighted
for the paintbrushes. messy
and lousy and with unintentional
bruises, just like how i paint –
i’m sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i can never draw something correctly
no matter how much i try – the blush
of your cheeks is always a bit too red
like you’re shy and excited and in love
all at one, eventhough you’re not. your eyes
avert, searching, a soft glow of dark and earnest
brush strokes. you would lean on my table,
or sit in my couch, or sleep in my single bed
where you pull the duvet up your chin and your toes
squirm under the golden light of the world
in my paintings. but that’s not true, isn’t it?
im sorry that i am such a bad artist.
i cannot paint you correctly, instead
i imagine you a different version of yourself
and she appears on my canvas. so playfully
and endearingly and impressively
i have the illusions that in the stark reality
her original model loves me
just the same.


Mon, 25/05/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

Escape Rooms for the Apocalypse

Thoughts and Prayers #2.


Escape while you can 📌


Except that there is no escaping. Strangers come and go and leave
stench. We would try to be polite if we are not so busy hammering
the floorboards over the corpses. Someone is supposed to find those

and act suprised, maybe a little frightened, maybe a little panic.
We power the batteries by shrieks, like the old movie Monster Inc.
when the apocalypse was still a word on the other side of the front-

door and the bell rang, but we ignored it. On the wall there is a line of
photographs and portraits. Behind some of them are clues, encoded
so that when you go down the right path, you die. The rest hide

traps, but not as deadly; they only ask for limbs. Grotesque mercy
is the price for poking in our past. We install the drains at the corners
of each room so that blood will not pool up at our feet and cover

the clues. It’s the escape room, anyway. In the jewellery box you’ll find
rings, with fingers intact; use them for fingerprints, although there are
hundreds and after three wrong inputs we drop the blades. We are 

nostalgic; guillotines excite us and the sight of your head served
on a floral plate is appealing. Careful what you’ll find under the bed
the ladies love a hide-and-seek as much as your eyeballs, ornaments

for their dresses; they’re making bowties out of those with ribbons
and giggles and laces. We’ll let you peak through the curtains,
windows are caged with forged steel and barbed wires but if you’re

loud enough, you’ll realise there is no one outside; everyone is either
dead, or trapped in their escape rooms. And by everyone I mean
us too, trapped in an even smaller room, the nails on our coffins

rattling when we laugh, everytime another one of you join us.
Isn’t it frightening? Do we terrify? The neverending cycle
of looking for a way out and finding none. We make fun of you 

and your despair. We laugh while looking through these screens
and set up agonizing scenarios you are forced to act out. It’s always
better to distract ourselves with the sorrows of others. It’s always better

making you suffer instead of drillling on our own. We are miserably
invincible. And when you make it to the front door, you will realise
the apocalypse is still on the threshold, waiting; the bell keeps

ringing; we will give you the keys and see you break. Pick up
your organs from the floor, they are an eyesore. And welcome
to the club, we have bet how long you’d take to be one of us.


Sat, 28/03/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

Thoughts and Prayers

of a rogue planet.




In the first day of creation God said
Let there be light
and I don’t know if the Bible holds truths
in these dark times, still. A hand
outstretched, something I cannot take.
A smile detected through only the curved
corners of tired eyes. Light fades
like everything else does
and in the shadows there are outlines
of us standing; scattering. Precautious
distances, we are told, and we act as though
that haven’t been our lives
even before the dark times ever
begin – floating around each other like rogue planets
too terrified to run into orbits and let gravity
grasps hold. Circling like the distances
define us. We act as though
it is a laughing stock. Funny enough
to forget that it was not better
before the fall. Where was you
before the fall? Someone asks.
It was strange. It was horrid – the land
I was on before. A deserted island.
A rogue planet. A place where people
float awkwardly and cautiously like we’re scared
of being too close. The universe is far too dark for us
and we will burn like comets.
The Bible said humans were created last
when the world was ready for us. But are we
ever ready for each other? You see,
even before the dark times there is no ray of sunshine
that can touches the ground I’m standing on.
I am too far from you, or from the stars, or from God
I read the Bible to know that I was not created alone
and I have been here for a thousand years
waiting for lights. 

Wed, 25/03/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

On sale: apartment, solitude, naked body and a kitchen knife.

22+ ideas bath aesthetic dark for 2019


One morning I wake up and my pillows are soaked in tears.

The fabric is damp and dark and it looks terrible. I look terrible. The image in the mirror distorts. And then I see myself naked. My body; the T shirt with a pink parody of the line ‘Wild n Free’ sitting in a corner like leftover of a cold meal; the sweatpants pooling at my ankles; the rug under my feet calm and fluffy and inanimate and dead. My body, in the cheap nude underwear I bought from Target when they’re on sale, shivers in the cold. My body is there in front of the mirror, bare and exposed and open for inspection. Like a house. Or more like an apartment, one between too many with the same doors, the same rooms, the same welcoming rugs on the doorstep. 

I see it naked, wallpapers pulled down, behind all the furnitures that the last owner has moved away, dark stains and scratches and dirt remains like a covered wound being reopened.  Tiếp tục đọc

Of all the love in the world.

NYC traffic light


The moment I met you
the world turns       left and I turn

Traffic lights flashing yellow

like flickering lightbulbs, like fireflies,
like a warning.                 Be careful,
they say,     be patient, be brave.
I walk slowly
   in the hope                 of not tripping over
    and falling                 headfirst.
           Don’t you understand?
I am never here           for being in love.

Imagine: you are on a car, driver seat,

your hands on the wheel,   the leather
             etching marks into your palms.
There are                              sweatdrops
               on the sides of your forehead.
But I am not on the passenger’s
to look at them like they’re diamonds,
I am not.
                     I am not.
                                          Instead I am
on the road,   gazing at you through
the windscreen: your hair ruffles
through the open window
you lips

              are turning pale,
your knuckles white

the look on your face stern
so dreadfully, painfully,

Imagine: I am on the crosswalk,

planted like a tree, and you are heading
               straight to me.
Traffic lights are still flashing

I am not supposed to be on the road and

               you are supposed to slow down.
But we are fools and the world
has never waited for people like us.

Imagine: at the intersection that   I’ve crossed

a thousand times,                          you are there
for the first time, and you are there to kill me.
             And I have been waiting for it.

Listen, out of everything

                                     out of everything
this is the only piece of me that I am sure of:
            When I love you,
            I would love you for so long and so intense
            all the love in the world
                                 would be a joke to us.

And if there is ever anything to love at all

     it will be you. My god

                                        it will always be you.

Tue, 04/02/2020.
Đậu Hủ.

[Geraskier] Gửi thế kỉ hai mươi, – Chương I

Gửi thế kỉ hai mươi,




Tác Giả: Đậu Hủ/Ant & M
Thể Loại: 
Fanfic The Witcher (Netflix), Modern AU, Crack, Fluff, hopefully not too OOC, Fairytale Romance, Neighbors to Enemies to Lovers, That Neighbor Fic Noone Write For Me So I’ll Do It Myself, Longfic, Round Robin Colab, HE.
Rating: M

Pairing: [Geraskier] Geralt (of) Rivia x Julian Pankratz | Jaskier




Sau này nghĩ lại, Jaskier vẫn cảm thấy năm đó đúng là thần tình yêu phù hộ cho thoát ế nên mới nhân tiện thoát chết.



Jaskier đã phạm nhiều sai lầm trong đời, nhiều đến mức đôi khi ngẫm lại cậu cũng phải tự hỏi làm sao mà mình vẫn còn nguyên vẹn cả tay chân. Thế nhưng nếu để chọn ra những sai lầm để đời nhất mà Jaskier vẫn thường phải nửa đêm vỗ gối trằn trọc suy ngẫm làm cách nào chết quách đi cho rồi, thì hẳn top3 sẽ là ba điều sau, và hai mươi năm nữa vẫn sẽ là chúng nó chễm chệ trên bảng xếp hạng:

  1. Viết thư tỏ tình với thằng hậu vệ khốn nạn đội bóng đá trường cấp ba.
  2. Câu được anh chàng bồi bàn đẹp trai ở khu phố cổ nhà ông bà trong một lần đến thăm, xong lại quyết định đưa chàng về nhà ông bà hành sự.
  3. Tiện tay thèm thuồng cắt trộm một bông hồng nhà hàng xóm.

Tiếp tục đọc

[SofiVic] Amaranthine



Tác Giả: Đậu Hủ
Thể Loại: 
Fanfic Mortel (Netflix), Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff, Domestic Fluff, A Lot Of Fluff, Fairytale Romance, OOC because I’m too lazy to rewatch, Oneshot, HE.
Rating: T

Pairing: [SofiVic] Sofiane Kada x Victor Wanderwelt


Fic set sau ending của ss1 Mortel (Netflix), Victor không phải xa nhà và anh trai của Sofiane trở về nguyên vẹn. Điểm khác nhau duy nhất của tụi nó lúc này và tụi nó trong canon hai tập cuối là tác giả ảo tưởng ra rất nhiều fluff, cũng như chúng nó thậm chí còn có thể quấn nhau được đến mức này.

Ý tớ là, tớ cũng ngạc nhiên lắm á…..

Rất nhiều nhân vật có thể xuất hiện nhưng vì tớ muốn dồn sự chú ý vào hai thằng này nên đã thẳng tay cắt phăng Reda, Luisa, bố mẹ Victor, vân vân vũ vũ. Nói chung là, chúng nó có nhau là vui vẻ cả nhà rồi hahahaha :D




Victor phát âm tên nó theo cái cách mà chỉ có Victor mới làm được. Sof-i-an-ce. SAAfya-een. Nhấn mạnh ở So và kéo dãn ở đuôi con chữ, với âm Fi gần như tan vào không khí; cuốn lưỡi nhanh, gấp; âm lượng thốt ra nhỏ như tiếng thở. 

Trong một câu nói bình thường của cậu, thường sẽ chỉ có tên Sofiane được nói nhanh nhất, liền mạch nhất. Như thể Victor đã quá quen với cách gọi tên nó, hoặc lại như Victor theo bản năng trốn tránh việc gọi tên Sofiane quá lâu quá dài, như sợ Sofiane sẽ bằng cách thần kì nào đó nghe thấy được từ tận cả đầu bên kia thế giới.  Tiếp tục đọc

When a poet fall in love with you,

you never die.




I could have loved you
I could have loved you for a millenium
until the earth beneath me unravels and
the sky turns pitch black
until every drop of rain dry themselves
on the ash of my body and all the trees
burn to the ground
until embers are the only thing left alive
in my chest. You see, the world is dying
and I couldn’t save it– I am not here
to save it. In a millenium all the people we love
will be gone. No one will remember my face,
or my voice, or how words flood out of me
like river streams. But you will be remembered
in every book, in every song, in every
love story that survive the doomsday–
I will make sure of it. You will live
in each and every page. You will live
in the carvings on dead tree barks, in the dirty
paper stars in crashed wishing jars, in the drawings
on broken lampshades, in the peeling paint of every
old rustic window we crawl through, in the kitchen sink
full of shattering glasses and bent knives and
fragments of a whole collapsing roof.
You will live on eventhough the world doesn’t.
You will live on even after the last trace of us
is gone. You see, I am not here to be a hero
I can only save what’s left of you– your smiles,
the dimples on your cheeks, how your lashes
flutter like butterfly wings, the way you tip toe
up your creeking staircase, all the silver rings
on your fingers, all the succulents
on your window pane, the pinkies we make
promises with: never lie about your feelings;
never hide who you’re crushing on; never break
the rules of friendship; never fight again and
never die alone. But I am never good at keeping
promises. Darling, you will live on in everything
that I’ve ever done, except this one:
I have been in love with you for so long
that I am afraid of loving you.
I could have loved you until the end
of the world, but you
you will know nothing about it
and the remnants of you in me will live
for an eternity.

Thu, 13/02/2020.
Đậu Hủ.