Dei, you are not the same you.
Dei,
We're dancing on the peak of Singapore when you ask me "what is your most selfish need?" Nelly Furtado commands our bodies ‘give it to me give it me give it to me’. I answer and you refuse. I repeat and you push against my reply. I shout what I NEED. You shout what you think I WANT. We dance to be polite to the floor. You lean into my better ear and tell me who I have the capacity to become.
*
We’re waiting for Rajinikanth to arrive on screen while the wrong film is playing in the right cinema when you ask me “what are you going to do to make me feel better?”. I read your truths from the tantrums you throw. I see the crimson in the flags you hoist. I envision my deterioration if I remain obedient to your whims. I pull away. You chase after. We engage in a boring battle of unmet heteronormative desires. I get angry. You want to marry. We spit and scour. We suffocate and sour. I demand for space you will not grant. I run. I run. I run, before all that remains of me is you. Venom surges from your inherited masculinity. You succumb. You succumb. You succumb, to the softness of boi. We evolve into villains of the narratives we construct.
*
We’re standing between the aisles of graphic novels neither of us can afford when you ask me “what parts of Malaysia do you pick and choose, to love and defend, when you are outside of our country?” I respond to your lukewarm interrogation of my loyalty. You collect my answers as if it were your patriotic duty. I laugh and accuse you of having Singaporean tendencies. You chuckle at my inclination to exit a conversation. I make a case against blooming where we are planted. You make a case against nurturing soil that will never belong to us. I think about the price we pay to stay. You think about the cost of leaving. We simmer our summary of points to a matter of situating, in the most strategic location to serve our present purpose. We become professional acquaintances, just in case. Now that we have met in the flesh, we follow each other on Instagram and nearly never speak again.
*
We’re enveloped by the engineering of streetlights and chemistry when you ask me “can I carry your bag?” I want you. I want you to be enough. I want you to be more. I want you to be more than enough for me. You want to be ready to be all you can be. You want to watch another movie. Together, we make a list. All the Malayalam we cannot mouth inevitably surrenders to a lyrical tangle of Tamil intoxication — declaring little, sighing plenty, falling for futures we hope to wait and see. You rest your eyes on my lips. I empower you to be courageous. We fit until we falter, under the weight of assumed expectations.
*
We’re stabbing plastic forks into pork flesh when you ask me, “Virgo?”. You evaluate me and I assess you. You assess me and I evaluate you. We assemble an alliance from the debris of migranthood and a waffle. We forge a camaraderie from the matrix of missing homes we left behind. We like each other enough to wait for each other’s bus to arrive. We both recognise genocide as genocide. Mutually, we establish sunny ties of the schoolgirl-kind; easy. We rest in the restless comfort of laying our selves on the table. We worry for the facets that refuse to heal. We shake the earth over split desserts. I wonder if the word ‘kawan’ has a Cebuano counterpart. You wonder if we can vacation together in March. We occupy a friendship that never frets about timely replies.
*
We're wandering around the city neither of us belong to when you ask me "what is stopping you from asking?" You challenge my areas of comfort. I retaliate and you resist. You choose to tell me what I already know. I choose to inform you that I enjoy you. In the melody of your punctuation I picture a kind of London ENNY raps into existence: ‘pressing buttons’, ‘blocking blessings’, ‘tying joy to relevance’. We discuss our destinies with disregard for the realities that await us. We daydream about devoting 10,000 hours to our craft. We aim to ascend beyond aspiration. We smile. We violate our patterns with caution. We acknowledge the brink. We smile. We become the poems we will never write.
May your mixtapes and encounters improve your harmony,
Melizarani
On repeat
Tis’ the season of annual reviews and necessary stock-take, but I rarely prefer receiving strategies from white men. So, here are 23 questions from my most reliable pillar for personal development, Jeevan Sahadevan.
‘A daughter on a quest can free us all. She changes the river she is descended from, she shows us where to go.’ - excerpt from Sharon Chin’s ‘Mother Tongue, Daughter Language’ speech text is the most nourishing piece I’ve read all December.
LÜCY’s CACTUS is the sweetest soundtrack I stumbled upon in Ipoh. It is made to fuel solo roadtrips and daydreams.
My father said
“We are writers. We must compose every Christmas greeting. No forwarding images.”