I am a shape. A smell. A sorrow.
Of what you will not abide, not the least in where a hollow
now takes the place of your heart.
You were worried about your image. Your energy. Your Aktionsart
which has now dissipated. Something else has started:
something so shamelessly balanced and nuanced,
it almost seems fated
that you'll lose.
And if you believe that, I have news
for you: that's not how the universe works.
But I've lost count of the number of times I've told you
the freaking truth:
a self-fulfilling prophecy honestly does not
become you.
A song without a startiger looking at the stars has little to no use;
a Kevin Martens without his mouth, his chest, his biceps:
how will you ever get the views
of my body that you so enjoy?
How will you ever refuse
new strategies of love, and hope, and dauntless might?
How will you now claim
that I have no professional image,
no suitable insight
into what makes a Singaporean?
How will you label me an outsider now,
when my CV is taller than that last and final tower to heaven
in 9564 BCE.
And there were other lessons to be learned from the rising of the seas
which you have thrown back in the ocean.
So as the heat sets in,
don't fucking come asking for my individuation sunblock, my psychoemotional lotion:
the skin cakes.
The country bakes
in the ferment of your indecision
and your return to Spectrumic fear and abusive intention.
I don't want Kristang wine.
I want a functioning, authentic and psychoemotionally healthy
Singaporean nation.
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