I’m Not a Bloody Playtime Pool

Drown

Painted by Brian Kirhagis

You wanted to be let in,
into the flow of my emotions,
into the depths of my feelings.
Why do you want to leave now?
Oh!
You have your life to live now?

I asked if you could swim
and you said “yes”,
you’d do anything to get in.

Is it too cold for you now?
Is my water too dirty for you,
too contaminated for your soul?
Do your lifeguards want you out now?

Were you looking to find fishes in me,
to feed them and keep them for your use?
Are you disappointed that there are none?
Do you wish that I was more salty?
Have you found a different water?

Why don’t you talk to me?
I don’t want you out of me;
your presence satisfies me.
I am so used to you;
I don’t know what to do.

You can’t just make me trust you
and then mess up.
Cum, tears, sweat, blood, pee;
how do I separate all of you from me?

You see, this is the kind of shit that…
*whew!*
…this is the kind of stuff
that gets motherfuckers drowned.
I’m not a bloody playtime pool.

I’m a sea.

-Yemoja 

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Be Careful with You

Womana

‘Cause I’m as sweet as a small pup,
you like to treat me like a dry mop.
Know that when I bite,
it takes time to make me stop.
Do you want to spite?
Try me, I’ll give a full cup.
If you kick this girl when she’s down on the ground
then you’re gonna be stressed when she gets up.

No Clay for You Anymore

Peju Alatise

Peju Alatise’s Art

I put my heart and soul into
molding a clay pot for you.
You didn’t ask or beg me to,
but for some reason, at that time,
it was the thing that I cared most about.

In the course of molding and shaping,
I asked if you would let me drink
from it when I was done,
from you,
if I ever got thirsty.

Looking back, I’m not sure if I had asked for too much,
or I had said something terribly wrong,
because the resounding “no!” that I heard
cut me deep in the soul.

At that time, I would have become water for you
whenever you were thirsty,
if you wanted me to.
I would have fed you milk from my breasts
and honey from between my thighs if you wanted,
and maybe that was too much.
Maybe too much was asking for me instead,
so he could cut me in the throat.

On my 21st birthday,
you told me to break the clay pot,
and when I was done with breaking it,
you stepped on it.

Testamendo-de-divorciado.jpg

I cried and begged and said
I could start all over again,
and I was sorry,
and I wasn’t one to use clay pots,
and I didn’t really want to drink with yours,
and I loved and fantasized about plastic plates instead,
and my question was hypothetical,
but you didn’t want to hear it.

I got so vulnerable around you,
and I always wanted to tell you everything,
and maybe I shouldn’t have been like that, you know,
maybe I should have kept some things to myself.

Ten days of depression.
Ten weeks of uncontrollable tears.
In ten weeks, I gained so much weight.
In the next ten weeks, I lost so much,
so much weight,
so much happiness,
so much zeal,
so much reason to live,
so much you.

Before the spirits took me away,
I looked for you
and waited for you
and cried for you but
I didn’t see you.

Where were you?

It’s the tenth month, and you’re back,
not for me,
not for the pot,
but for the clay.

You’re going to pretend like you didn’t squish the clay?
Like it’s a sweet new day today?
Like you didn’t send me away,
and nothing happened yesterday?

The karmic tie is broken
and I’m done.
Stay in your lane
and I’ll stay in mine.

I wanted to squish you
the way you did me.
My goodness,
I was a sensitive thing.
It’s not worth it anymore,
those days have passed,
and I’m glad that I, at least,
got to kick you at last.

 

The Lady of the Hood

She’s the storm in the calm
and the calm in the storm.
Life is in her right hand,
but death is in her left.
Sweetness is in her right buttock,
but chaos is in her left.
Honey is in her right breast,
but poison is in her left.

She’s right-handed, until it’s broken,
until the wrong words are chosen,
until she’s robbed of her token.
Oh, what the hell is “soft-spoken”?

“Yes, you better be joking.”
That Queen is a fiery ocean.
You dare not hurt her children;
she keeps her cold heart frozen.

She meows and strides before she roars,
like a humble bureau-cat.
She marks her territory;
she does it just like that.
If you trample on her
like the people do on mats,
with the class and style of an aristo-cat,
and the power and poise of a big lioness-cat,
she tears you into many bloody parts,
just like that.

The Society’s Guide to Being a Man, 101.

The only way to be a man
is to not be human.
Don’t cry;
be sad, but don’t say why.
Don’t feel;
hurting someone is the best way to heal.
Don’t express yourself when you do feel,
and if you must,
do it with clenched fists.

The only way to be seen as strong
is to insist that you’re never wrong,
and if a woman isn’t under
your absolute control,
you can’t be a man on your own-
you can’t possibly be whole.

The Hands, the Vase and the Flower

If you ever think you were wrong,
you’re right.
If you ever think you did bad,
you’re doing good.
When you broke the flower vase,
you had to take care of your cuts,
but you have quickly forgotten
that my home was shattered too.

A dead flower needed her vase.
A dead flower would begin to decay soon.
A red flower died because of you.
A red flower died because she loved you.

 


You let someone hold you, and because of their carelessness, or because they’re just tired of how heavy you can be sometimes, or for “no” reason, they drop you. Your heart’s broken. Your vase is destroyed, shattered into many pieces that you can’t possibly put back together on your own.
They say “oh! I was cut! She’s in the wrong and I’m innocent.”
Well, what about the poor flower? What about this poor flower? You got cut. Yes. You got cut but I died. Sorry to you but adieu to me. I don’t bleed, I’m a flower, but I can get very badly hurt too.
Also, I’ve not been resting in perfect peace; I’ve not even been resting in one piece.

Ládékojú

Ládékojú is life; Ládékojú is death.
Before she puts death in your mouth,
she places life in your hands.
She is loving, sensual, sweet, seductive and kind,
but she’s not as meek as they make her seem.
She’s the gentlest but
the most dangerous of goddesses-
the one you don’t want to mess with.

When she is badly offended or hurt,
she laughs uncontrollably.

She walks by the offender
and makes goo-goo eyes;
she shakes her buttocks
and sways her hips.
She walks to the offender
and lets him see her beautiful, perky breasts.

She kisses him and places her head on his chest,
falls on her knees and licks her lips;
she holds his penis.
Then she closes her eyes
and licks the tip, round, like a lollipop,
and when he’s ready,
she bites into the penis as if it were a hot dog,
and cuts it into small parts.
She gets up, laughs again,
adjusts her head gear and strides away, proudly…