I write again for the umpteenth time, from this place of brokenness which you have made my permanent abode.
Today, I wore my black tank top and short jean skirt as you liked it in those days we drowned in our youthful fantasy.
I passed by the barbershop today and I saw my legs through the plane mirror, those legs you playfully called cocoyam legs in those days of our budding love.
Another day has passed and I still can’t get you off my mind
Fresh in my broken heart are the many promises you made both in words and through texts
Like my shattered favourite mirror are those promises you made, promises that once made me walk with my head high, now I walk in fear with a bent gait with shame, shame that you have made me bear ever since you got your fame.
I know the game of our love is over and the flames extinguished
Yet, this cross refuses to ease its burden on me no matter how hard I try
Ours is a sweet story of a love turned sour since the last six months.
When I hear your scornful voice again and it becomes too much for me to bear, I will come to this place of brokenness again and write of our sweet turned sad story again.
Yours in love forever, Chiamaka.
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