This body, like my language,
my culture, and my heritage
is my own. I don't need to believe in a higher power
to show you that I absolutely deserve my own internal psychoemotional throne
so get your fucking hands away.
You sexually abused my schoolmates, my students, so many people across these islands and this entire universe
it's a fucking wonder that you still lay claim to be anywhere near virtuous.
It's a fucking wonder that you project that you and I are anywhere near the same
when you are evil, personified.
Your central narrative is filled with self-loathing, and shame, and terrible, soul-eviscerating fright, disguised as love:
that a man-woman can do everything within their power, live a noble and virtuous life
and still not be able to conquer the pain of death.
That living meekly and fearfully and inauthentically
is better than having to draw one's last breath
alone, laid out on the straw.
In Westworld, the loops are a gaping maw;
in reality, they are almost heaven sent.
This Kristang devil was made for so much more
than being a mere beast of burden
whose boundaries keep getting groped and touched and violated
by some very dirty, and bloodstained psychoemotional hands.
So be it.
Let the world understand:
you are not, and never will be even remotely hieros.
You are the Maliduensa, dressed in the skin of a lamb.
You are an endless history of lying, deceit and the complete and utter corruption of man.
You are a sad, pathetic little thing of the void
that I, and Kristang, at last
leave squirming, and wriggling,
and weeping and gnashing its teeth
as it finally has no choice but to release its hold
on this brown, sun-soaked, sacred Portuguese-Eurasian land.
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