Rough-hewn from the quarry
I am hard at labour
and also in other contexts:
hard to find.
Hard to hold onto.
Hard to get
unless you know what you value.
And show it;
you don't need to have as many wristbands on, or conversely be naked.
Just be cute.
Be imperfect.
Be a little less painted:
everyone's mental health is bad.
Inflation, and housing, and the no feasible presidential candidate thing all seem to be continuing unabated;
still I take pictures of myself in this mirror.
Not because I scorn those by whom I am hated,
or because my ego or sense of self-worth are too inflated,
but because in the end,
I TOLD YOU SO.
And then I waited
Ten, fifteen,
soon to be twenty years. It was not fated
or preordained. I was slated
for so many fucking things,
so many ways my name could have been weighted down
by the false diamonds, and gold-encrusted poisons
they made you wear. You know that clown
meme? I was once rated
on some secret database that I still do not know about
as most likely able to seem
placidly ordinary. Relentlessly just a closeted gay little fairy.
And now?
Now come rest your head on my chest,
where you once made fun of me for not being hairy.
I promise you,
once you get over yourself,
destiny really isn't that scary:
on the contrary.
True riches come from knowing you made the right choice every single fucking time,
no matter how painful, and how lonely the journey.
The best treasure
isn't just worth it:
it is living it, bold, and true, and gay, and Kristang,
and oh so fucking legendary.
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