Prose Poetry

“Your Body, My Temple” — Prose Poetry by Nice Mwaura

Your body, my temple. My body, a network of pimples. Maybe that’s why you kicked me out like a defilement, forgetting your class was too high and I did you like assignments.

A new dawn of you beating yourself up over men who kept crushing you down, and sadly I realize if it was supposed to feel good, then it couldn’t be called a crush.

What happened to your fears, your tears? And life is a journey only I was a wrong gear. I treated you like holy wine but you wanted a different kind of liquor, that’s why you asked for beer. I made you believe that your body was a temple, what I forgot was that I paved a chance for passers-by. And the temple was full of sinners and saints, so I was not on my own that’s why when I couldn’t afford to pay for your coffee, you posted photos of you at Kempinski. I’m even sorry I couldn’t buy you chocolate and I think I was too late. Wasn’t the prose enough? The lines and rhymes, I mean is it because I don’t know the price of a rose? So you give me a pause. I kept on pressing replay and it hurts to know there isn’t a chance of a second thought.

Yet I adored how you got down on your knees to worship my manhood, shoving it even deeper down your throat. Of cause I liked it when I pushed the whole of me into your valley, your cracked my galley and your legs were up so high; my legs are now down, crying to the son of the Most High.

Is it a crime to have loved you so much? Was I not enough?

Ten steps away from your altar. Apologetically, I take off my shoes so I won’t stain your holy grounds. And I will ignore the broken fragments of the glass cathedral built from my soothing voice that hurt my feet. I am at that place at the bottomless pit, screaming at Satan’s feet. And I am afraid of the world. Too much afraid of putting my guard down for the fear of being judged for something I cannot control.

Your fake moans, my church bells in the morning. My groans, you care less, that’s why you are frowning.

Or maybe my offerings were not enough. Or you wanted a Land Rover whilst I kept pushing you for a sleepover? I invested in you and ended up losing everything good before I even considered declaring bankruptcy.

See, four more steps and I will lock the door behind your yard. You ask for a rocket and all I will give you is space. I will leave without a trace. I hate that you are always right. I hate you in ways you don’t even hate me. I hate you want the corners perfect like the edges of zero and that am not your hero. I never meant to hurt you; I cared too much to make you happy. And I hugging you felt like hugging cactus, the tighter I hold the more it hurts. I want to cry and laugh at the same time. I bought you an expensive watch, and you don’t have my time. I mean, I have given my heart before, but for you, I gave more than my skeleton.

The last step, and I as I show myself to your door, I am scared to move out of your room and get lost in my whole life. You have a big heart, only it can’t be meant for two; and though this gets me at an impromptu time, I hope it will be easier with him who is better than me. That he will be the right shoe for your feet because your standards are high, and that’s why I kept it cool being at the sharp heel of your stilettos. Your body, my temple. My smiles, your wrinkles. I am the dejected spit you cannot take back.
This is not an apology, not a letter, just a dilemma.

Too much words with strokes of punchlines you taught me and the wounds you branded sinful to your aisle.

Loving you was a price, I can’t help that I am bankrupt.

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