A Teaching Scoundrel (Local),
and an NUS Research Squander.
A pseudosociolinguist
and a fake archeoastronomer.
Not even a real psychotherapist,
and an amateur language reporter.
An infidel heretical ex-Christian,
and a seasoned, disloyal traitorous top performer.
A botched, impure Eurasian.
A terrible Kristang storyteller.
A weak, cowardly queer activist.
A non-non-binary mere dabbler.
A teacher who no one will ever respect.
A rapacious, malicious, abusive mind-predator.
A villain who takes the part of a hero;
a demonic, incomprehensible son, best friend and brother.
Just fuck the bastards who say these things over
said no one to me, ever.
No one took my side
except me
for many,
many years.
And now you want to be part of the team.
Now you want
to pretend like
I don't have
these memories.
Now you want to fucking
cosy on up to me
because you think
I don't fucking see
and hear
and taste
and smell
and feel
my own screaming fear
thirty fucking years of it
lifetimes of you inviting me gently
to smash my head
against my own prison walls
because
there were points where you didn't even want me to die;
you didn't care
if I lived or survived or thrived.
You just hoped to be able to say
HE DIDN'T EXIST,
in the end.
He was just a story.
It's all alright.
His legacy
will not persist.
We'll add a second Portuguese Settlement.
He will not be missed
and yeah.
I won't be.
Never again.
O Brave New World
that hath such absolute, impossibly dead evils within it;
I, too, am done,
in absolution,
with playing any kind
of fucking pretend.
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