Dear Nationalistic Exceptionalism



A person or nation isn’t great by beating everyone else and having them be inferior to him. People are great when they lift those around them up and bring them up to the same state as they are.


Today, I win

Today I win

I win my temper.

Breath short and sharp,

Pounding heavy on pride

Lull to a calm, an understanding that,

I have no humour, take things too seriously

Throw salt outside the door – over my left shoulder

Because I Will Purge With Religious Fury

The people who sass reserved seats on the bus

True Love is Not an Infatuation 

Being a romantic is wanting a one way ticket to love

Is thinking somehow it’s possible to love without the constraints of …



Not having a history together

Of accidental meets

No family, the perfect little convenient store lives.

Maybe that’s why we fall in love with artists.

We think, like their work, they are magic.

A thank you to the universe 

Thank you for giving me all these things you have given me. I’m sorry for being the reason you had to take so many of them away. I promise i will do better. But i’m grateful you gave me the chance to hold these things once and feel their warmth

You shaped us in your image and we have been disfigured

Beauty is a legacy.

The legacy.

The legacy of white men breaching black, yellow, brown shores

to scream through signs that you are not allowed to sit on the bus,

that your almond eyes and native waists can be crushed under Freedom, English, their pelvis

that the laws of our land, living word housed in the temples of mandalas can be withered into dry hard books their tax accounts dictated.

The legacy that still bleeds through the signs turned neon now – iridescent with the color of their privilege.

The authority which produces whitening cream for straightened hair from black yellow brown children in sweatshops,

still make them trace the lines of history back to the violence wrought on our people.

Lines. Knife on Maps. Straight lines cutting through whole nations, easy lines ending whole eras.


The only lines you wanted to teach us in your school were the lines about your benevolence. The only lines so many stitch today frame the logos of your factories.


And all because we were not beautiful enough.

We were not civilisation to you.

And so you force us to buy your standards, your creations, your ideologies so you can scorn us.  You set our kingdoms back with violence and oppression and crushed potential, and that was not enough. When we tried to fight the disease of your colonisation, you with your politics installed puppet governments, murderers.

And still you call yourselves the beacon of development. Of humanity. Of democracy.

So no, don’t tell me about the White Man’s Burden in history books,

tell me about the burden of shame on my accent, of how I am still living history,

of how our peoples are still lumped together into a dirt hill of money grubbing poverty and our love for oppression

Of how we are still not beautiful.

We need to be saved with your arrogance and democracy.

Please, I’m begging you on the knees you’ve broken,

save us from the first time we encountered you. Save us from the slaves you shipped. From your homophobia, xenophobia, countless more fears.

Save us from the cannons you blasted so forcefully to shove spirit subjugating opium down our throats.

Finally, end this lie that you’ve delivered us humanity.

We have built empires and philosophies and centuries

So you at the infancy of your civilisation

Do not tell me that my land and my culture is not frightening, is not inspiring, is not beautiful.

Do not tell me that my women are not beautiful enough.

That we are sexualised and yet second grade conquests.

Don’t tell me that we are ugly enough to have deserved being slaughtered, exploited and played.



“Less than 25 percent of the models cast were models of color” – Runway Diversity Report. And let’s not pat ourselves on the backs when most shows had absolutely no coloured individuals.


Never lose your temper. When you do, you lose your power. And from that point on, your power can only come from topping scorn and rejection with more violence, with darker and scarier threats,  more wretched and crueller destruction. Hold your temper and your strength won’t have to come from all that you do, but from all that you don’t.

I have finally cut the chord

I have severed the thread that bound our lives so closely,

fought the feeling that our destinies were tied into eternity,

Life rooted, revolving, foot steps ebbing in and out of that house,

those winding stairs passing rows of grimy tiles, the residential areas of dislocation, unwinding, unraveling of everything.

Of cloth, morality, will to live.

Accepting the love we think we deserve

life almost ended in the moment we met.

Will, his destruction, pulling all the mess and pain into a single point of gravity,

Almost abandoned myself in the back alley of forever dark littered streets.

Staying spelled the end of futures, a feeling I knew but couldn’t understand, couldn’t believed, cried into the crook of my elbows on public buses, into the darkness of my room, in between the sheets of ache and desire and the pain of another broken soul.

Almost gave up everything – all that I can be, will be for one man – no, one boy, one selfish monster.

I forgive him, one person.

I’m leaving him forever,

leaving a world so familiar to the abusive shades that also colour my sky.

And even if he dies, I will not look back.

I will fight to protect my heart, the hole I am tearing open to let the sunshine in.

I will never let him back in.

I will never let him in.

I want to kill the possibility of his existence,

I want to destroy

I want to kill him before I kill me

the feeling of absolute terror and psychosis rises and slowly ebbs in my throat

No, I will not. I will always keep a firm grip on this world, on this reality, on the pieces of identity scattering and pulling away

I will always keep myself together, hold sway. Live in the negativity, in the absence

trade authenticity and self-destruction for a shot at holding my life, holding authority over my body.

And on the day I die, all the fun and all recklessness I gave up would be worth all the cuts left

Buying Skins

I promise, I won’t live under the ghost of another


You can like me, dislike me,

forget me – forgettable

but it’ll be me.

I am not going to be a mock up, a facade,

a pumped up ballon – thin elastic stretching towards breaking