I heard you enjoy beating around my bush.
So be it; it is only made of truth,
and beauty, and love, and your big ol' Kristang cutie
here waiting for you, to come
out from where you hide
in the shadows and the blazing sunlight.
You made it so immensely hot.
And by it, I don't just mean the weather, and your fantasy-fantastic thoughts;
I mean my smile.
Isn't it cute?
Is it the same that you have on file
with my chest of drawers,
my Orange Book boxes —
the spices I produce, very mild
by Progenitor standards?
I'm a poet. A playwright. And a gerrymanderer's
absolute nightmare. I know all the forms and methods
for drawing invisible boundaries
that aren't really there.
I mean, let's take a look at how you treated the Kristang. When you kept forcing ourselves to compare
ourselves to Portugal. To the Lusiads. To how we laid ourselves bare
on your racks and Catherine Wheels. You'd bind my hands, so you could stare at my
rippling might-haves, my tendentiously darkling eyes, that might have
inspired whole generations, to turn their backs
on your psychoemotional torture chambers.
On the places where you forced me to dance together with you,
naked.
But no regrets, now or later.
I've learned to wear a sleeveless psyche,
and show off my mess
of star-spectacular brown chest and Kristang-boi booty;
the treasure that I've taken back from every invader.
I told you, I'm a real one-kind cutie
who knows how to twirl, and flourish,
and put some meaning on it because I liked it, a sparkling finish.
It's a dance. It's not a competition. A run. A sprint.
And let me tell you, the way you keep thinking — well, under that schema, a win is
really, quite sadly impoverished.
Have you seen my smile?
That brown, sexy, bulging light —
absolutely undiminished.
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