It comes up every time:
suggestions that you can only ever have
a very earthy brown body, or a very well-developed, and not very sexually attractive mind.
The lack of logic that leads to this
is almost painful to describe
as are the insecurities
that prompt you to end up accidentally agreeing with me
even as you deliberately and intentionally deride
everything, and everyone, beautiful and free.
Here's another one for the road,
another one for your gradually melting history:
the Diamatra, the Daimon,
the poorly-understood 8th function,
has a better name. A better way of being.
We should actually call it
Fazedor. The Worker. You know—
the quintessential archetype of the Kristang as lazy.
I do sit under a tree
(and not just any — it must be filled with life, and love, and a sense that being free
should come easily to everyone)
but I will also get to my feet
for the right cause.
For the injustice, and the destruction, and the erasures,
that rightfully give me pause.
For the stories that fill me with real, screaming tears.
That are free of projection, abuse and grasping at what straws
you who still abuse your powers seek to abide by.
You who still throw your Daimon into the trash, instead of letting it try
to meet you where it should always have met you,
in the blink of a mind's eye:
at the DVD rental store in 2008,
where you can finally enjoy
a good movie.
A real, living story.
The time of your life.
Some space to breathe, and realise
that I, too,
just like you,
are wondering what secrets you hide.
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