I

Being told to love you
only breeds resentment
that I learn to bury.
What should be natural
is now nurtured into
docile sterility,
cultivated and pruned
till it relents and dies.
Every August, what love
that remains for you grows
out of its grave, summoned
by on-air pageantry.
For one night, it flowers
forth and you are worth it,
persuading me I would
regret not being part
of you. Each time, I pray
for that feeling to last,
knowing it will be gone
after the fireworks fade.

          II

Here at the exchange point,
boys file off the ferries
dressed in every colour
of the spectrum, scheduled
for a transformation:
grooming into green gear.
When asked to, I will swear
fealty with forked tongue,
using words forgotten
soon as they are spoken,
handing over body
so love and devotion
can be hammered down deep,
invisible lessons
intended to take root.
Whenever my heart tries
to bleed, treading the mud
of the island will serve
to cauterise its stump,
to teach it self-control.

          III

I yearn to be able
to love you so deeply
that it hurts and informs
my words against my will,
but my flesh is too weak
and you are not ready.
Instead, I sow distance
between us, to reap and
negotiate with love
strictly on my own terms.
There is no need for guilt
where how I feel for you
(or do not) is concerned.
I have the patience of
a horticulturist:
tending my affection
in a guarded corner,
until you have ripened
enough to love me back,
or I to compromise.