Tired of revealing
new, completely fulfilled prophecies,
I shutter the Kristang factory
briefly. It had been churning
out new material literally non-stop
since some time in 2016,
when you projected
that I hadn't been doing enough
to give my own life meaning.
That I always had to do.
To even convince myself that rest
was something no else really knew
how to pursue. Well.
In Singapore,
the above statement might actually
be true.
But then I really grew up.
I became someone who knew
where the dead branches have learned to fall,
and decompose,
and become something
a little less manicled.
Something that I foresaw
would never happen to me.
You were so scared, you even tried to take a blowtorch
to my entire personality.
The leaves combust readily;
the sap, surprisingly,
not so easily.
The skin? Now there's another matter.
Tougher than diamond.
Harder than the soul of one who really
truly, speaks freely.
If you asked me —
oh, but you fucking didn't.
You just made it seem like
I never ever learned my lesson
about selling my soul.
I don't use my diligence as a weapon
but maybe you do.
I'm not selling whatever it is you haven't
figured out;
I'm selling my body. My heart. My mind and my soul.
None of which you can ever
do, since for a purchase to be made,
the product still has to be whole.
No posts