If anyone tells you something vile, come and have a word with me.

Meet me over coffee. Let’s see the sun go down in our mugs.


This narrative that they created of me

is to suit their versions of their truths.

To appease in themselves…

…their sentimentality, limitation, dusk fears.


Come, ask me once for a walk into the chill:



to home.


Why won’t you verify?


Or do you like theory more?


When I am still alive.


Ask for my phone number, email address.

They have misspelt my name,

changed my caste – even though I believe in none,

Mis-reported my blood group type.


…because mismatching is fine in debate alone.

Panel discussions of inclusivity.

Human chains against global violence.

Not in factuality.


There is nothing threatening about literary criticism.

<Turn the page.>


Fiction does not bite.

It doesn’t say it straight.

<Close the book>

It doesn’t point,

turn on all the closet lights.


Or do stories about a living person prevail

more around her living soul?


Let’s try technology.




Just speak to me.

Get a geometric compass to measure

progressions of

differing stories.


In those gaps,

you will find malice.


Insecurity has its own avarice.


That’s why:

give your interpretation a try.


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