Immerse me in your fear;
I have drunk from stronger men’s bodies before. Oh so near
and so rich. So dear.
I have tasted hair,
and sweat, and blood,
and other things, made so beautifully clear
in this poem.
In the words you like to cloak me in:
“Focus on the Kristang. On the awards. These are better.”
These are less problematic.
Your image is made from spit and polish, and by a couple of mechanics
who really don’t seem to know how to fix a car, much less a country that is painfully gripped
by the spectres of so many crises, it is quite impossible to list them all,
especially since I do not have TikTok
or a Master’s degree, as you keep reminding me.
Do you want to know what else I keep having to see?
You, in my dreams—
they aren’t really nightmares anymore, because now my psyche
has been acclimatised to identifying when I go dreamwalking in other people’s sleep.
My life has been revitalised to the point where I can breathe in places so deep
it is not mysterious to me, anymore, when you touch my psyche
without my consent, and expect some kind of reciprocity:
go and get dressed.
Or alternately, go for a swim.
Judging by how things are going, you might want to, while
swimming pools still even exist.