Friday, September 07, 2007

Saya Banjir

Can you see me?
No,
I am asking you.
Can you see me?

Can you see
this heart of mine?
Pumping and beating and living
on the palm of my hand
with the burden of the world
attached to it.

This soul,
Can you see it too?
This soul that assumed you knew me,
and that I am your equal
your brethren
your sister, brother, mother, father, men, women,
flashes of divinity and humanity,
In one single breath I was God and a Slave
Just like you.

And this face of mine.
Could you see that I am you?
Or did you prefer to look at this skin that
is not white enough, not black enough, not brown enough
not smooth enough, not perfumed enough,
not smothered and lathered in labels and expensiveness
just like yours is?

Or did you prefer to not touch this body
that is not thin,
not fat,
not curvaceous enough
not boyish enough to excite you
and make you dream of me during the nights and jerk off whenever the urge comes during the day?

Even when everybody knows
that all you need is a hole,
face and personality optional,
Would you not touch me even then?

Is this body,
layers of meat and fat and meat in your eyes,
this mass that I have proudly called mine,
not good enough for you?
Even when my heavenly breasts,
my melting honey soaked curves,
and these oiled full lips of mine
respond to the thoughts of only you,
would you even contemplate of loving me then?

Would I be good enough for you?
Or would you discard me
like old newspapers
or half eaten roti canai, drenched in tears?
Order me for breakfast, lunch and supper.
A plate of Roti Banjir, mamak.
A plateau of Saya Banjir, tawkey!

I am
Overflowing,
bruised, beaten, bloated.
Dead carcasses floating in me
Fishes and sharks and creatures of the deep
struggling to survive in me
And even then,
would you notice this
ghastly side of me?

Or would you only see
a rotting shell,
a vehicle that only carries the breadth of me
the weight of me
a physicality that secretly veils
my cursed ability to see you
for real
in nakedness
in truth?

And that eventhough in my eyes,
you are bubbling with
staccatos of maybes,
and probablys
and maybe some other times,
and I'll call you tomorrow....

I am cursed to love you.