For every single day to be the same,
I would have to equate
what you see in the mirror
with my own elegant straits
through which many men have sailed.
I know what you need, and seek, deep in your heart,
especially if you are male;
a heart of hope
and a life a little less pale.
The smell of another man's love;
a masculinity that you hope will never fail
in the line of fire
of other valiant man-child soldiers,
who have never realised that what ails
one of us, ails us all,
and makes us into monsters,
and abusers, if what we fall into
is what we think is our own personal hell
when actually, babe,
it is a lake.
You may not be gay
and you may not be straight;
maybe you're just someone who looks straight at me,
unfazed,
and sees reality bend around
a Kristang superbro whose ego
you would love to inflate
and tear down. I think I already asked in another poem:
how many times have you seen me drown?
And how many times have you seen me glide
not across the water,
but across the deep, frothing islands
of your hate, and inanity, and spite?
That's it, then:
it really is Kristang heaven
when the mirror inverts
and the only thing that you have left
is your own burning lies,
your ravens, your lycanthropes,
your scorching, slithering eyes.
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