aku rasa
setiap aksara yang kutuliskan terasa seperti lelucon yang lahir dari jemariku sendiri,
menggeliat di atas benda bercahaya dengan kecerobohan yang puitis.

Makaa,
kubungkus ia dalam bahasa asing ,
seperti melarungkan rahasia ke samudra yang tak banyak mengerti,
berharap maknanya karam sebelum sempat ditertawakan.

Does the rain ever lament its descent from the heavens?? It never wails in sorrow as it plummets, nor does it seethe when souls below spurn its embrace, fearing the ache of its touch.

Yet, unperturbed, the rain unfurls, steadfast in its purpose, knowing that in its departure, a resplendent marvel shall emerge the rainbow.

The rainbow, a spectacle adored, a vision revered. But have you ever pondered that without the weeping of the sky, such splendor would remain but a dream?

Thus, revere the rain that falls in quietude, and let not your lips murmur, “I abhor the rain.”

They speak again
tongues like measuring tapes,
wrapping around curves
they were never invited to touch

Don’t be too full,
or you’ll become the joke
Don’t be too hollow,
or they’ll pity you in silence

Don’t shine too bright,
you’ll be named too cheap
Be simple
but never dull enough to vanish

Their words stain
like wine on white silk,
like smoke that settles
where breath should be

And I?
I face the mirror
but see a stranger,
built from fragments of their judgment,
stitched with doubt,
stitched with shame

I begin to loathe this skin,
mourn the way it bends,
curse the way it stands out
as if I am an error,
written in flesh,
waiting
to be erased