I know you, Kev,
and this isn't you.
I remember what you used to be:
won't you stay true
to the story I keep telling myself
about who you should be?
To the love that I have showered upon you
to the ways I have set you free
from your own irrational emotions?
They make you do such silly things on the spur of the moment,
conjure up such notions
as you can somehow be gay and non-binary
and live a life that is not subordinated to the dark, oily ocean
that once rolled over nearly every Kristang,
and nearly every land and nation. Nearly every mind, body, soul and heart.
If you are gay,
it's really okay.
It may be a devastatingly horrific sin (the psychospiritual equivalent
of Section 377A)
but you can at least get married, have kids. Like many of your indigenous ancestors did.
It's not like we're afraid
of you, and the way your body moves.
The way it seems to say to us, still,
I like punishment.
I want to be abused.
I feel naked when I am not being used
for my own endless torment.
When I am being imbued
with all your blood-soaked prejudice. Your lies.
Your filthy, disgusting, hypocritical heretics
who lie to themselves, every day,
because they believe there is no other way to survive.
If you don't like the vibe, check
your fucking self, and what you
are trying to hide;
it might just be that I know you want all of this.
It might just be that in the end, I wasn't 'psychic'. I just made a list
of all your infinite functions
and did the polymath.
In the end, we know that the universe doesn't lie.
In the end, we know that I was always correct in self-correcting,
no matter what new bizarre beauty it was
that you wanted me to stridently deny.
Kontu teng kabesa hierosa,
the only thing this image ends up made out of
is pure, authentic, immeasurable firebreathing pride.
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