‘Tongue-in-Cheek Letter from a Tongue-Stealing Online Stalker – A Poem

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Dear friend of friend of friend of acquaintance,

I am sending you this pseudo-letter via Messenger, which I’ll delete

A minute before your 5.55pm post-post-post inspirational post

About, according to your promise in your last live broadcast,

The danger of self-stealing, of all things,

Before you could turn me into a block of butter with that block button,

To inform you without my own consent that last night, vegetated as I was in my dream,

Every (other) part of you, a mere stranger, turned into my strictest secondary school teacher,

My formerly-bi-but-now-formally-bye-tongued teacher,

Head to toe, semi-tongueless,

Except your surprisingly accepting, alarmingly righteous left hand.

 

They signed solemnly, your left hand and the strictest teacher’s right,

Apparently having a serious walk-and-talk on how to eat what’s left

Of my scared, stealthy behaviour alive,

How to turn my chewed mischief into some golden chicken-winked

Wingless nuggets of wisdom

After I stole my teacher’s second tongue

Like an artist and your online presence

Like an artiste,

Before using that tongue to read your public posts without your consent

As opposed

To what?

 

I shivered in that dream as your hand shimmered on my shoulder,

After signing to my teacher’s

Which played the bad cop, suspended, about to smack

Me, for that tongue-in-cheek act of tongue-stealing.

Your left hand, mouth sprouted, take an entirely different good-cop approach altogether,

Massaging my shoulder, whispering, ‘Stop stalking.’

I cried because I wanted to stop

But at the same time I could not live without those sinspirations from stalking

Which were not quite inspiration since technically you didn’t

Inspire me, it was all sinspired

As I sinned against you and the teacher who lost her second tongue to my stealth.

 

The teacher’s hand, steel-made,

Still suspended mid-smack

Sprouted a mouth too, or two.

It howled for me to stop talking! Stop talking! Stop talking,

After I covered it with excuses made of stringy saliva,

Like the cuddly, cheese-saying mozzarella petted by its yummy mummy, your foody neighbour,

To tie that non-pal palm, so that the smack could be haltered and my fate altered.

Meanwhile your righteous hand’s good-cop voice amplified, still soothing,

Still saying, ‘Stop stalking,’

Matching hers, the teacher’s right, or rather what was left,

As soon as my dreamy eyes opened, introverted and unrepentant, as ever.

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