Venus in “Deadtrograde”

A plate of pain keeps
the potential heartbreaker away.
Two glasses of my old tears daily
will help me not go astray.
I am strong and I need no one’s attention,
but I want to be desired,
and I want affection,
but I was hurt,
I don’t want a repetition,
but I want love,
and I can feel the tension.

I don’t cry.
I don’t cry anymore because
there’s a pool of my tears
in my heart,
and I like to swim in it,
or go down, down, down,
and drown,
when a potential One
comes too close
to my feelings’ flat.
If anyone is to decide when I drown,
it has to be me, myself and I.
Would you give another potential
pretentious,
manipulative
dingbat
a chance to decide when you die?

Six planets are in retrograde
in my natal chart,
and venus used to be one of them,
but she’s not anymore.
My venus is dead;
a man has stabbed my sickly venus to death.

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Out of Reach

The stars have remained special
because they live in the sky,
far away from our touch.
If they lived in the sand,
we would mistreat them 
and kick them around,
and they would mean nothing to us-
nothing more than mere stones.
We would get too used to them,
and we would not appreciate them.

I should have stayed out of your reach.

Unre-QUIT-ed IX

Love is a Cave:
I am in love,
but I am in it alone,
I am not in love with you,
and it hurts me to the soul
each time you remind me
that I am in love,
but you are not in it with me.

Unre-QUIT-ed VII

He never expressed it;
he imprisoned the love he had for me.
Sometimes, it would try to escape
through his mouth,
but he would swallow it again.
At other times,
it would try to escape through his hands,
but he would pull them back.
After a while, he could not
hide it from his eyes;
I could see the love in his eyes.
He would shut them tight and look away,
and when he looked back at me,
I would see the imprisoned love again-
begging for freedom,
asking for help,
screaming my name…

Decide Now

Emit a change;
it’s high time.
Come to your senses;
I’m losing mine.
Make up your mind;
I mind.
There’s only so much
that I can take;
wake.

Panty Poetry: Hurt

You suddenly become perfectly good at
reading between the lines
whenever I want you
between my legs.
It hurts
me.

Unrequitedly Requited

African-Woman-Konstantin-Yegorovich-Makovsky-Oil-Painting-1-800x1084

“African Woman” by Konstantin Yegorovich Makovsky [Oil Painting]

“I love you.”

My heart froze, but not out of fear. It was beating very quickly, and I could have sworn it was having continuous orgasms, if I had to describe the feeling. I wasn’t afraid anymore; I was nervously, intensely relieved.

He loved me.
He loved me.
He. loved. me.
Oh, God.

Then he continued, and right after he did, I wished that he hadn’t.

“I love you two, you and Leidy.”

Wait, one second! Did he say “I love you two” earlier or “I love you too”?

“You both mean so much to me and I’m lucky to have you as sisters from another mum.”

I immediately burst into laughter, and for some reason, he began to giggle too.

“You both are my babies.”

Well, he just didn’t know when to stop, did he? 

I began to laugh even louder. I laughed so much so that tears began to run down my face.
He was laughing because I was laughing; I was laughing because I thought I had just made a fool of myself, and I was deeply hurt. If he was laughing because I was laughing, he was laughing because I had made a fool of myself, because I was deeply hurt.

I so desperately wanted to sink into the ground and disappear or fly on the angel of death’s wings and never return. He loved me, that was good, but not the way I wanted to be loved.

I am Not a Savage

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Pretending not to have a soul
while desperately needing a soulmate.
Proudly stating that one is a savage,
and one does not have a heart,
while constantly feeling one’s heart ache.

Not being vulnerable is
what we consider honourable.

We become honourable,
yet not able,
not able to freely live,
not able to freely love.

We put ourselves in chains
because we don’t want to be slaves,
but by doing so,
we become slaves to ourselves.

It’s okay to address and discuss emotional issues, even if the events that now hurt you happened when you were two years old, and perhaps you tried to talk about it but you were told to shut your mouth. Proper healing is essential for good survival, because you deserve a good life. Even if you have two more weeks to live, do so with true peace in your mind. 

I recently had a conversation with my mum about an event that happened over a decade ago. “Mum, when I was like five, you flogged me for this and that reason, but this was what happened, if you’re ready to listen.” She did, and she apologized. Look, I am not a ‘savage’. I was hurting, and she needed to know, so that we could be true friends.

The thing about not addressing issues is, you might not just hurt yourself, you might hurt the people who love you, the people you love/will love in the future, consciously or unconsciously, in a bid to not get hurt again. Sometimes, you’ll get defensive when you don’t need to be.

Also, if you think you are going to hurt people by discussing the reason why you’re hurt then it’s necessary that you do so. “Dad, when I was three, this and this happened and you didn’t listen.” When you ‘destroy’ old structures built on lies, you’ll be surprised that they can be ‘rebuilt’ in 3 minutes when the foundation is placed on the truth. Maybe those old structures don’t even need to be rebuilt; maybe they need to be replaced with trees that give lots and lots of oxygen.

My point is, help yourself, or let someone else help you, if you’re hurting.

Give yourself closure.

Insecure

Insecure.jpg

Michael Escoffery

I chained myself to you because
all I wanted was to be free.
I starved my self and soul to death,
so you could feed and rescue me.
I put a blindfold on and
chose to ignore the signs;
you were all I wanted to see,
even if it cost me my eyes.
I was incomplete without you,
and so, I wasn’t complete with you.
I couldn’t live without you,
and so, I couldn’t live with you.

The Man of My Dreams

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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