And too many still want it to burn.
Yes.
I get it. I absolutely acknowledge it.
Some men want to watch your words
fill up with hurt.
Some men want to watch your fears
become things that they insert
forcefully,
into your life.
Your mind.
Your heart, your soul, your body
your spacetime.
Your universe, and your sense of pride.
Some men want you to pretend that it doesn't
treat you like dirt when they do this.
Some men pretend that when they aren't trying to flirt
when they look at you, with rain and thunder in their eyes.
And I look right back at them, with all the fury of a quintillion dead and dying
of my own kind:
gay, Kristang, non-binary,
and so very, very alive.
Some storms clear the path.
Some showers are just a bath.
A Merlionscane — have you ever lived through one? —
is absolutely divine.
It is all of the abused and marginalised
and their glorious, fearless wrath
coalesced into one single uncondensible timeline.
A reign of fire.
A deluge of entire
planets, and stars, and galaxies inspired
by love that never had a path
to live.
You fear the monsoon:
I would fear everything more
this Dreamtiger, in full, serene compassion and kindness,
still has yet to give.
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