Forget me when I’m done with your palaces, the same way the architects were slaughtered to preserve
the beauty of my country’s landmark.
Your noses shrivel and turn when
you see me in my sarong,
or when I hold the hand of my
same-sex friend.
You say it’s hard to see me at night
unless I smile.
So I smile, and remain fatalistic about crossing the street, just as I do at home. I will build your castles, and occasionally die for them.
I will cook my food where you throw yours, and hold the hand of my same-sex friend.
You know, where I come from, that’s what friends do.
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