It’s unmistakeable;
the pain of being so tremendously loyal
that you’d dare to reach in
and touch me, right there
while I slept; how puerile
I must have felt.
How I never imagined you’d dare;
especially while I was already trying my best
to find my feelings again.
But dissociation allows you to
reach in, and claim
that anything can be taken as a glimpse of where
the wilder things supposedly sing, in my bare
lonely dreams of being free from my trauma:
do you know just how rare
you fingers cooked me, stroking and reaching
for all the follicles of my tender, curling
hair, first and foremost;
and then, when you thought you’d made sure I was asleep
you reached even further, reaching for my
dreams.
My nightmares.
My ways of being me.
My Kodrah Kristang, and my legacy.
You wanted to take it all from me.
And I?
I wanted to let you, honestly.
I was tired.
Tired of being misunderstood,
and gaslighted by my employer, my friends, my destiny;
tired of trying to keep it altogether,
come what may, come whoever may deem
me a target,
a fresh-faced flower,
a foolish friend and lover
waiting to be seen.
I know what you took from me.
What you left behind.
I know what you wanted me to think:
and luckily, I know now, just how to find
who remains, after all the fears and insincerity.
Who is left behind.
I know who you wanted me to trick:
and I know, worst of all, what it feels like to be an accident
by design.