Ask me again, sometime,
where I learned
to let go.
When I learned
that I will never get what I deserve
unless what I deserved
was never merited in the first place.
Ask me what this is.
Isti, ngka akeli.
Yo, ngka bos.
Ask you what I am?
I have learned only to ask
who you should have always been
and what I should never have learned to remember.
I will never be recognised for all I can do
except by myself,
and by my husband,
and by you, and your friends,
and the state, and the world,
because it is by your fears and insecurities,
by your own projections
that I have come to understand
that I am, indeed,
all that I will ever need.
I am who I am.
I am recognised by
whoever it is that chooses to recognise me,
staring straight,
and staring very, very gay
back at me.
Objectification in the mirror is closer than it appears.
But desire all you want.
All that remains
is the knowing
that even I am fundamentally,
epistemically,
ontologically,
concomitantly uncertain
that I will ever be all that I already am:
An ocean of dreaming waters,
a shimmering lighthouse.
a fire in the sky.
A cry for the lost.
A crown of flowers.
I am best before
31/08/2022.
After that
I am even better.
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