The Man of My Dreams

Many times a week, after we stopped talking, I would have several dreams of him- terribly stressful dreams that would make me cry. In those dreams, I would anxiously wait for him in the church that I grew up in, that we grew up in- where we first met, or in an unknown, deserted place, but he would ignore me.

He never remembered our initial meeting when we first began to talk, as much as I tried to get him to, but I did, very clearly. He was with his friends, and since they were so tall, they looked intimidating to me. He stretched his right hand out towards me and I put mine in his briefly, before asking my question. The question was about a creative-arts program that was to be held, if I remember correctly. I thanked him, and walked back to my guardian or friend, I cannot remember which.

The dream that made me cry the most was the one in which I was talking to him but he was avoiding eye contact and walking away, leaving me in an unknown place.

I had a very similar dream before we stopped talking, and I narrated everything that I could remember to him. I had not been in contact with him for over a week at that time and I was beginning to worry, and as soon as I remembered the dream, after he texted me, I gave him the details. I did not understand that it was a prediction then, and that a little excuse for walking away was all that he needed. We had a little, insignificant quarrel, and he milked the argument so much that my heart lost its perkiness.

Nine months after, just when I thought that I had moved on, that my soul was healed and I was free, although I had occasionally, very intensely hoped that he would text me, I saw him again. It looked like a children’s program was being held at the church. I sat and waited for him in one of the seats at the back, and I saw him pass me by. He did not notice me.

He looked very sad, and his hair was so full and unkempt. I had never seen that much hair on his head. I watched him sit on one of the chairs at the front of the hall. I wanted to walk over to him to say hello but I could not. In the first few dreams, I did the talking. In all the other ones, neither of us spoke to the other. I only watched him and hoped that he would talk to me, but that was it.

After he sat, I went over to the speaker who had the microphone and whispered something into her ears about the children she was addressing. The few sentences that I made were acknowledged- she nodded. I walked back towards my seat and out of the hall, hoping that the distraction would make him notice me. I made sure not to look at him this time.

Ileke idi

I went into a little room with a sleeping mat on it and I laid down. Immediately I dozed off, someone banged on the door. I jolted out of my sleep and screamed his name. I looked up to see if it was him, but it was not. It was my younger brother. He made fun of me the way he does every time any reference to him- the him- is made in my home.

I woke up, and asides the perspiration and tiredness that I noticed, my muscles were sore. My whole being was sore; I cried like never before.

This is me coming to terms that it is over, that he is not coming back, that I have left that church, that he does not love me as much, or at all. This is me letting go off the broken karmic tie and resigning to fate. This is me dying, accepting that my yin will never be balanced with his yang. This is me at the funeral of our attraction and love that died long ago. This is the ninth month, and when I had the dream at around 8 pm today, I birthed my stillborn.

Winslow Homer - The Gulf Stream


Defective Heart

I was born with a broken heart,
and no one can care for me
or love me enough.
If they don’t care for me
or love me for a day,
I’ll go back to being paranoid and hurt,
and I’ll be much worse than I was
before they came into my life.

No light is bright enough for my darkness;
nobody’s trust can make me totally fearless.
No love is compatible enough with my heart;
no brush is good enough for my art.
No air is fresh enough for my lungs;
no drums are good enough for my songs.

I must learn.
I must learn how to love myself.
No one’ll ever love me more
than myself.
No one’ll ever love my self more
than me.




The Art of Stephen Hamilton

When our hearts get broken,
when our souls get injured,
when our very beings get tampered with,
our eyes shed water in sympathy,
and art becomes the tears
that our hearts profusely bleed.



There you are, sitting in the garden,
desperately waiting for the seed’s growth.
You water it for as long as you can,
then you say to yourself- “if I use my tears,
it might be kind enough to grow faster.”
You’re tired of waiting;
you’re tired of dreaming.

So, you slap yourself really hard,
punch yourself with all your strength,
and attach pins to your right arm,
one pin for every second
that you have had to wait,
but the seed won’t sprout, still.

Then, you realize!
You realize that what you’ve been waiting for,
what you’ve planted, is no seed at all-
it’s your heart, it’s your self, and
you can’t grow love on an infertile ground,
even if you ask and wait and beg for it,
with all of your heart.


Sleeping Beauty

You, my Knight of Swords, my prince;
me, your princess, asleep.
You sucked death out of me- my lips, your lips;
first, it was the mouth,
then it became the nipps;
you made me a new person,
from my hair to my feet.

My death settled on your tongue,
it poisoned your words,
and with each passing day,
you reminded me that I once was dead,
and that I owe you my life.
Our fairytale was over,
my prince was killing me,
I was dying again.


Death in Shining Armour

Death didn’t spare my previous knight
on his way to meet me,
so he became death.
He died; 
he was dead inside.
He broke hearts and ripped souls,
but I welcomed him with open arms.
Totally rejecting the idea that
he was completely dead,
I tried to fix his wounds.
He snatched my heart and broke it in six,
and I let myself die the 6th time.

Look, I am very quickly becoming death;
so, find another queen.
My flowers are not yours to wet;
my heart’s not yours to win.

Your knight was/is not Death, queen;
your real knight will come!



Love Addict 2

Love will make you sad,
it’ll turn you bad,
and it’ll drive you mad,
if it’s given to you in dribs and drabs.


Us is Dead

Why do I miss you so much
if you are right beside me?
You are gone from you,
you are gone from me.
Your eyes don’t recognize me anymore,
I can’t see myself in them.
You’re alive,
and I’m alive,
but Us is dead;
Us is not on this bed.