spoke too soontoo loudtoo much out of turntoo brutally honesttoo empowered by yoursense/x/ualitytoo much of I, I, I, I -I thinkI knowI realiseI understandI loveI, I, I, I.But I love you for yourI, I, I, I,pretty kampong girl from the little islewho kicks sand in the eyes of those who stare too hardat you - maybe that's why they got mad because they got thrashed by thepretty kampong girl from the little isle;no one talks about raunchy tales of thosekebaya-clad glamour girls, the behind-the-scenes groin-grabbing of those in the goggle-box teams,the nocturnal routines of testosterone-drivenarmy-released hound dogs of boys in dorms.You took the tabloids by the thorns and wrote your life with your spilled blood butthey made you the scapegoat of Nonsense and Insensibility,called you witch, bitch, itch that plagued thenation's innocent minds,and overnight, you became from a blossoming bouquetto a faded pressed flower glued to the margins of your page.If you hadn't called the book ame-moi-r and hadfiled it under fiction, you would have been given a prizefor amateurish, over-indulgent, creative invention but they punished you for being brash, rash, trash, a gash that gaped open the mindset of middle-class prudenceand when they saw your red gash in the rawthey screamed "Vagina! Porn!"From another angle, I thought that what you had drawnwas a broken heart sewn together by blood rockswith pink new beginnings.With a suitcase of disappointment and angry tearsyou sailed away without saying "Goodbye"and tried to start over a new life;years passed, I grew upand often wondered what happened to thatpretty kampong girl from the little isleand one day, I saw, as all of us must have seen,your nameon a listamongst those who have turnedfrom flesh to ashin the instant when the plane crashed.No one knows what really happened so they made the crocs the scapegoats while passports, cards and cash were plunderedand you received instant posthumous forgiveness;from the Whore of Babyloin you became Saint Bonny, angel, misunderstoodpretty kampong girl from the little isle,but I knew all along they were wrong;you were a woman, then, I was a girl,and drawing margins with a pencilin my exercise book when they put you on the stakeand I read your tract in my room with the door locked to the world and my eyes locked to your words.I am a woman now, Bonny, and was once also apretty kampong girl from a little isle.I hold pens, men in my hand and a pencilsharpened at both ends.Your spirit in the breath I breathe,I take in, daily, a woman's chant, paint my face,become warrior, live in the den of my own clanand howl with grief for the mermaid princesswho couldn't fit in, whose time ran out,and whose voice was incomprehensibledeaf-like dolphin shrieks -shewho turned into bubbles in the risen airwith her unrequited heart.