Bong anoti! For I am not real.
I cannot possibly exist. My scars take too long to heal—
only one or two hours sometimes, and as much as a couple of days to fill
entire universes with post-traumatic stress compulsion. The projection is always imbued
with a sense that something is wrong with me, especially in terms of my body.
That I cannot trust myself not to fuck it up. Not to make mistakes. Not to make the wrong choices, and to have to say sorry
to everyone, for the huge, intense errors I made
when I was preparing this island to be a real city-state.
I pretended that I was Death’s best and only friend,
in the same league as Hope, and Destiny, and Fate.
Now I have only just come to realise
that I am far too late
to the party. And remain
outside. The doors are almost closed,
and yet I still pretend
that the constellations I have known for all my life
are right.
Even though they have been shown to be Christmas lights
across a ceiling strewn and flickering with hate and spite—
I will still bear witness to the gods that they are,
for in doing so,
I still manage to have some valiantly sad reason to justify my stubbornness.
I still manage to have excuse to throw caution
into the sea, and fight.
I still manage to ignore the rest of the universe
in how I decide
what everyone’s ultimate destination will be:
this, as peace has always told me,
is my own legitimate, and valid insight.
This, even as democracy, progress, justice and equality disown me,
is something I will never deny.