Because I do, at least for myself:
the number is zero, inside and out.
Whether we’re talking literally—
you know, with that thing you call
mercy
and which I call
incessant, hyperabusive, colonial mentality-infused cruelty—
or in metaphors, that beg me to believe
that you are a nice person,
a head filled with strength, and moral fortitude, and decency.
But all I smell
is turpentine, and decay, and the stench of a fair number of people
who do not want to betray
their own terror at possibly being extremely wrong
about just how much Singaporeans care,
and just how much we will run along
to other places, and other wastelands,
that aren’t quite obsessed with such severe penalties
for being just a little bit
wrong. Again.
Once, twice or three times:
this has gone on for far too long.