By kevin martens wong zhi qiang

 

originally published monday, 14 april 2025

on tigri sa chang​

​​​

Koitadu | Content warning

Please first read about my writing in the Skribadorang or Writing section on the Igleza page here before reading the piece below so you have advance warning about the rather spicy things that I often like to write about, and why I choose to write about them, especially in terms of subverting unhealthy stereotypes about gay people, Kristang people, Creole people, Indigenous people, masculinity, neurodivergence, the body, healthy forms of attraction and sexuality, and using my writing to process the severe individual, collective and inter-generational trauma and abuse I have faced across my life.​

I've known You will come for me
for a very, very long time;
I once almost joined You

a little too early.

Just a little too readily

far before Your company was ever supposed 

to truly be mine

​

and still others quietly want to ask me

how does it feel

to know Your embrace

and how much

honouring You and what You can do

has healed

​

my heart, and

given me back my strength
and my courage

and my own ability to love my own beautiful, endlessly mirrored face

​

in Your waters,

​

Sinyorang

where I am still the only human being alive

who dares to fully

meet Your gaze?

​

Would you sleep with Death Themselves,

Kevin Martens?

I already have.

I already did.

I already had a great time

with Fate

​

and Destiny

in our little quad

of gay dreaming Kristang heartmakers.

And I got fucked and ridden so gently and tenderly
with the love of the living universe Themselves
that I finally learned that I was only ever born
to be a gamechanger.​

​

For on Sunday, 1 April 2091, I will die.
And on that day,
I will have already known
for more than sixty years
that I really was born
to be the world’s first
very confused and accidental reclaimer

​

​who once nearly lost his own voice.

Who once nearly came so close

to making

that ultimate

and very, very, very

most difficult choice

​

a little too fearlessly.

A little too early.

A little too endlessly

​

did the universe once spin.

​

And far too unjustifiably did I use to remind myself incessantly

that I was broken,

and fucked up,

and unworthy,

and so utterly full of sin.

​

But at 98 years and 6 months,

and 32 years, 6 months and 13 days,

and 0 years, 0 months and just 1 shortest day:

​

I will always have been the same.

I will always have been Kevin

and nothing but the

first and greatest dreamkeeper

and dreamdancer

of Death Themselves.

​

Cowboy of Heaven

and that cutiepiest sayang still waiting for you

to come join me on the shore

free, at last

from your own

unbearably imagined,

endlessly superenvisioned

final hell

​

where Death cannot be defeated.
And time will never tell

your true story.

Your life will be over

long before you were able to

reclaim your truth

or reinhabit your body.

​

And it is true.

All Kevins must die.

All Dragons must one day

yield themselves

to the dreams

of history.

​

But come then,

you who I love

who are so terrified of the end:

​

let you radically accept
that even until the very end of your own existence

​

I will always be me.

And if you want
I will always be that friend

​

who reminds Death of who you are

and who says

​

not yet.

Not so

easily.