Poetry

Upon My Honour

I still hear his footsteps trudging down the corridors, towards my room.
The truth I hold, may take me years to unfold.
But it’s funny how several reckless moments could redefine an adolescent.

I’m still left bewildered by how an hour could ruin a girl’s dreams.
My eyes are the only honest things about me but they grasp darker secrets.
I now tremble at sounds, shadows and even my own gory reflection.

Branded and bruised in my entirety; those familiar eyes are always distant.
I’ve tried to flee the epidemic scene, but mom never told me that my wings
were made from wax; too weak to flight the skies, made only to be pegged
to the bed as my essence was dug by the spades of his unforgiving thrusts.

I felt the blood take leave of my orifice;
every drop submerged in my unattended screams.
“An okra cannot grow taller than its planter”,
I recall him telling me as I tried to push him off me.
I’m not strong enough to play this game,
father you win! Your libido wins!

I was the one ashamed to look upon
his shameful act—to call him father.
The moon stretched its glow through my windows,
reaching for my hands, but don’t you know I live in the dark now?
He injected me with dishonour and disgrace, all I could do was cry;
he kissed me in disgusting places that I just closed my eyes and died a thousand times over.

Momma says to tell nobody, “He’s still your father.”
Grandma says, “Hush, poppy bear, this is family matter.”
I avoid his dirty gazes but when I dare to steal glances at him, all I see is a beast.

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