MusingsPoetry

A Mouthful of Time

Four:
You’re the ink
and life is a big sheet of blank paper
without margins

Seven:
Your father’s name is your roof
and your heart is not yet broken

Eleven:
While your father is being drenched in newspapers
in a sitting room full of memories
You whisper to your mother “Blood,”
then you search her face for redemption
She walks you into the bathroom
squats and whispers,
“You are now a woman,”
In a tone that makes you think
being a woman is an unavoidable sin
You look towards the ceiling
and ask heaven for forgiveness

Eighteen:
Your heart is an iceberg
and more broken than the last time your classmates
almost burned your skin with envy
because
the most handsome boy in your class
fell in love with you
Now, you don’t even remember his name

Twenty-one:
Your body has grown into a silent rain
in a school that tastes like ashes
You already found your feet
but you wish they were longer
and probably somewhere better
This university makes you feel
that your bones are sometimes subtracted from your body

Twenty-five:
Like an unfinished poem
you lay on his bed half-naked but full of happiness
and creativity
You and your lover
In a dark room a little wider than your father’s balcony
With your finger painting your future daughter’s face on his chest,
calling him Akachi
calling him Somadina
calling him Forgiveness
Just in case tomorrow doesn’t smile back at you

Why not share?
Tags

Related Articles

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Check Also

Close
Back to top button
error: Content is protected !!
Close
Close