I can’t help but stare. And you’d always look away as you notice. Pay no mind to me. But you amuses me, milady. You, with an innocence of a daisy and a tongue like an ivy. You, with a resolve like a revolutionist and a kindness of a pacifist. You are a walking contradiction and you don’t give a f***. You’ll just do you. Y’know…
Sometimes a blouse, most of the times a tee.
Sometimes shorts, sometimes skinnies.
Sometimes Converse, sometimes Nike.
Sometimes your heart on your sleeve.
(Glowing and beating, splashing blood everywhere.)
And I am sorry that I still don’t have the guts to tell you how sorry I am for all that you’ve been through because it felt like you carried Sisyphus’ boulder with hands so small, I almost believed that you are nothing less of a titan.
But you made it clear to me that you are a princess–
For you wear that crown on your head and an exhaustion in your eyes that goes deeper than miscredited quotes on facebook,
than a .onion website,
than a Cartesian question that just goes on and on and on.
Sometimes you wear your kebaya and scars from nights where the numbness fills you up faster than the beer so you stick fingers down your throat and you fill yourself back up with anger towards god and his flawed creation you see between the blood and the reflection on your sword.
And I am sorry. I really am.
I am sorry you were born with hands so small.
I am sorry praises of love you’ve heard are not of love.
I am sorry dragons are all that you’ve ever known.
I am sorry the voices still lingers and whisper splinters.
I am sorry your scars still bleed sometimes.
I am sorry this life is morning coffee instead of an evening tea.
You see, I adore you.
I. Adore. You.
And it kills me knowing my words could be treason. I’ve never meant for my words to be treason to your body. I meant my words to be of love and you as more than a mare idea. I promised myself my words would never be of praises muttered out of compulsion towards an idea, a religion, a god.
But here I am, nothing more than a man. Not a dragon. Not a knight, a prince nor a prophet. I am but a man. And I would bow if that is what you ask of me.
But how I wish I could take your hand.
How I wish I could stare into that depth in your eyes.
How I wish you’d not look away.
Azizan Afi, KL.