Orange melted into my favourite colour
long before the rains came;
long before they let me crawl out of the furnace.
Long before they came for the sizzling pieces
of what barely remained.

Hotcakes.
Hot Kristang boy, baked
into a delicious, afternoon sun.
When you sink your teeth into the batter
something begins to run

to dribble down your chin.
Not blood, not sweat, not tears. Not even cum—
just what is left of my aching, browning years.

My rivers.
My seas.
The ancient wars that decimated
your hypocrises.
I conquered nothing
except your sense of neverending victory;
I took that, and made it my own.
I know you keep trying to write me out of all your histories—

and I'm honestly okay with that.
I get to live frugally. Regally, too; I have collected so many hats

that I will wear, without a shirt.
Yes, because it makes you uncomfortable
but far more importantly, I don't know if you've heard

but I do not intend to make a mockery of my leadership.
I intend to show every single one of my educated, intelligent, and very horny Instagram readership

what it means to
piece yourself back together, out of the shit
and dirt and rubbish they leave the hacked off parts of your soul in.
I don't finish well,
because brown Kristang flames just don't go out.
Not when hell

is knowing that people judge you for wearing a flower,
and being proud to declare that you take beautiful, intelligent men as lovers;

heaven becomes
just a matter of standing tall,
and smiling, and smelling just how fucking well done you are
in the mirror.

Sabrozu, ah?
I could be tea.
I could be breakfast, lunch or dinner.

But not in any fucking universe will I ever let myself be on the menu
as anyone's damned, unrepentant sinner.