And this is what we Kristang people call
a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Kifoi bos lembrah isti sorti di berdadi
podih parseh na mundu, kora Gaia ja churah lagri
di speransa, kung tristeza, kung karidadi
pra 75,010 anu, pra tantempu mazanti
di bos, kung tudu bos sa ansiadadi?
Your body responds to what it sees:
and what you see, what you keep telling yourself in the mirror,
is probably equivalent to what I did to myself too, until recently:
No man will ever love me.
No man will ever look at these arms, and these testicles, and these guns
and want to be hoisted atop of my sun.
And want to place their dreaming river
in between my hopes, and my fears, and my place where vulnerability finally becomes
me. Where authenticity is finally revealed
to have been hiding behind the curtains,
pulling on the shafts that lead one
to ask:
is this really what one means by never say never?
Maybe you should hope in the inevitable, in forever
actually coming true, to bring to you, in fire
a better image.
A real, true, dauntless courage.
The scraps of your ego
that Dreamtiger foraged back together for you ---
and Merlionsman will hold, and embrace
until you once more become whole.
Only one language in the world loves the jenti hierosa like we do.
Only one beautiful gay brown man in the world knows you want to love you
like I do.
So do it.
Be it.
Live it.
Free it.
Love only looks back at you with eyes like this,
and rhymes that invite dream and colour back into the world, and wish
that you will not leave Fuad and I alone.
That you will get yourself finally fucking grown.
That you will realise that a beautiful voice
is so much more than atonement and skin and bone:
Loving yourself is building yourself a home.
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