Trial by Liar
A baptism of
tiring me out. I get it, and I get out;
I write poems like how I sleep. Sudden, and fast, and sometimes really loud
snoring, from me, as if this is really easy.
I guess it technically is, but I’m also tired of how
hard it is to convince you that my intentions are really without
any kind of passive-aggressiveness, or shade.
In fact, I think that might be coming from you instead, babe—
no hard feelings, but I think it would be great
if you let me deal with my own problems
in my own way.
You don’t need to tell me
how hard it is to be creole, and Kristang, and gay; I got it.
You don’t need to tell me
that there are so many things you want to ask me, and to say;
I don’t necessarily understand all of them,
but I’m willing to pay
attention to you, if you’ll listen
to what I’m saying too. That hey,
it’s really hard to talk to you
when there’s projection coming from everything you do.
Let me help you;
it’s really about knowing that what happens
is not something that’s up to me, or to
anyone else alive, ultimately;
yes, the cliché that you’re expecting is very, very true.
But since it’s up to you,
fuck, do something about it.
It’s not that I don’t like liars, or thieves, or hypocrites:
it’s just that they make things hard.
They make things go down
in the night.
They make things too unknown, and taken a bit too far.
They take away time
from the real challenge—
the actual, impossible fight.