Crystal Lim

Crystal Lim is a participant in Poetic Portraits, an intergenerational creative project to showcase the creative talent and diverse life experiences of different generations in Monash.

Crystal Lim is a budding creative writer who dabbles in short stories, essays and poetry, often pitching to her university magazine.

A cinephile in training, she enjoys attending niche movie screenings and writing her best one-liner review on Letterboxd.

Crystal is currently finishing her final semester at the University of Melbourne, completing a Bachelor of Arts and Diploma in Languages. She hopes her writing resonates with people and inspires them to create their own work.

A Distant Image

Your face 

An exact replica of your father 

your nose, your smile, the glint in your eyes,  

How much your hair has grown since the last time we met.  

You run around the gardens, free as a bird.  

Your mother tells you to slow down 

But this patch of grass is your kingdom.  

Your hands wave in the air, laughing as we speak.  

A doll 

Or was it several? 

The carpet, stark naked, no stains to be found  

It lies flat, contrasting your toys, an abundance, scattered across the floor. 

Your nimble fingers go through each piece  

One by one, 

The plastic texture feels cold against your fingertips  

You gift me one of your own.  

You hug my torso, wishing I’d stay a bit longer,  

The taxi sits there, waiting, reminding me of the time,  

Your little face, a distant image as I try to capture it,  

I wave my hands until your figure fades away, overcrowded by skyscrapers, wedged between you and me

The Cocoon

Where should I start? Hello, how have you been?  

Do we look the same?

Or are we stuck forever with a baby face?

I'm sorry, I don't mean to rush.

You know how I am at this age.

Do you think about me? About our university days,   

When we used to hang out for lunch

with Maedbh at the Student Pavilion.

What about the film screenings we had with Pru

Every Friday, queuing for free pizza and a movie.

Do we miss them?  

I'm sorry,

If I ask too many questions.

I've landed myself in uncharted territories, lost

And unguided.   

For years I have been buried  

in my cocoon, revelling in its warmth.

Sometimes, I can feel this chill that rattles

Through me,

Waiting and waiting, calling endlessly.

I know I need to leave,

The heat once comforting to my face, my hands, my feet

All at once

Screams and clatters, permeating the air.

And yet, I stay put, unshakeable as the chills infiltrate me.

This cocoon, my room, my home,

It is all I have ever known  

From the magazine printouts taped onto the walls, 

To my decades-old primary school notebooks, collecting dust in the drawers,

making itself at home.

Where should I start? Where to now?

I'm standing at the tracks, I can't make out either side

It becomes an endless game of looking

Left, right, left, right,

Waiting and waiting, until I make my move.