I wanted to be braver.
I wanted to know why the gods never sent
someone crazier,
some made of substance more pure and spent
on someone whose mind was a little lighter,
whose heartstrings only throbbed
when things really began to get
out of hand.
And to my dying day,
I will defend my right
to say what I have:
which is only this.
A landscape of memory, strewn with decades
and centuries, and aeons, and geologic epochs
of horrific, heart-ripping strife
punctuated by those interregnal,
intertidal years of bliss.
I was made from love and war in old Melaka,
and a pair of very long green socks,
and a story that is always dismissed
too quickly;
you haven't even met me saying goodbye
to everything I was once foolish enough
to miss.
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