Suffocating:

II
Model: Audrey Obuobisa-Darko

I.

I am sorry about your abuse. I am sorry that your uncles forced themselves into you. I am sorry you were too young to fight – too naive to recognize your captivity. I am sorry the bedroom walls turned to prison bars. I am sorry they took their turn on you. I am sorry your screams couldn’t shake the trauma — ricocheting back to your ears in surrender. Where was God then? Or Jesus? I am sorry you lost your faith before you even found it.

Your father chose not to believe you. Your father read the newspaper. As you knelt on the floor begging to be heard. Your father flipped the pages. As you spoke of his brothers. As you suffocated to the memories. Your loss of innocence. Your father jaded your soul. With his disbelief. Killing you softly. With his ignorance. Killing you softly. With his silence. Your father chose not to see the scars. Or the blood. Or the torn apart clothes. Or the arch in your back. Or the pain in your large, beautiful Yoruba eyes. Your father called you a “little whore” for lying. For speaking evil on his brothers. Your father. Your father taught you to apologize.

For being raped.

II.

You found out, years later, that your father sold you. He said your body was never yours to begin with. He died without apologizing. He died, and you found the strength to attend his funeral. You refused to give the eulogy. You let the silence sit with his soul.

May his soul burn in eternal hell.

III.

Your lover kisses your forehead. Your lover recites your name like a sensual poem. Akanni – your legs tremble. Akanni – your loins are filled with fire. Your lover kisses your lips. He knows your rhythm. Slow, yet intense. Your lover is a master at loving you. And you love that about him. He parts your legs. Gentle, yet firm. He caresses your thighs with his hands. Your chest arches. Consumed by desire. Consumed by fantasies about to be fulfilled. Yet. Yet you stop him. Before it goes too far. Before the pinnacle of lust. You tell him of your past. Of your uncles. Of your father. He knows. This not the first you have told him this. He knows. And he is tired. Of rejection. Of waiting. Of not being a father.

Your lover begins to rage. Fire rolls off his tongue. Like Satan’s wrath. You place your hand on his chest. You try to consul him. And gloriously fail. He… he calls you an “old whore”. A woman your age should be grateful to find someone – he says. He calls your body a graveyard. Of love. And hopes. And dreams. The bedroom walls turn to prison bars. Your lover escapes. And you remain captive – to a past you could not control.

My Type Of Love:

WhatsApp Image 2019-12-24 at 12.00.17 AM

my type of love.

thrones your body.

king to your desires.

my type of love.

holds your neck hostage.

love bites to release you,

into surrender.

my type of love.

lingers on the tongue.

hypnotic.

your lips.

serenading,

with mine.

my type of love.

isn’t just about sex.

closure for the soul.

eye to eye.

stargazing.

into our little universe.

into — us.

my type of love.

gives a fuck.

plays on the dangerous.

toxic, yet intoxicating.

my type of love.

my type of love.

loves only a certain type.

 

model: @abhendi_claudia

 

 

Home.

Wear my poetry.
On your skin.
Recite parts of me.
On your stretch marks.
Carry my sensuality.
On your tongue.

Speak.

Only about us.

Of my Ubuntu lips.

Sun kissing.

Hot.

Seductive breathing.

Breathe in.

Our moments.

In every line.

Surprise me …

Tell your father you aren’t his.
Anymore.
Pack your belongings.
Recite me.
In every crevice.
Unwrap time.
As you fold.
Bags.
Heavy.
Like my body.
Unpacking sweat.
On yours.

Drown in me.

In every rhyme.

Wait for me.
On Beale Street.
Trace your ears.
One last time.
Whispers.
From me.
Sweeter.
Than honeymoons.
Tell your mother.
I am coming.

To take you home.

Cupid’s Vindication:

This is a public announcement to all the newly weds, the beloved, the couples.

Cupid’s dead.

I never gave him a chance to say his last words;

To that, I halfheartedly apologize.

His bones, however, sing me to sleep at night.

I curtained them over a window, and sometimes — just sometimes,

the ambience of past lovers strikes their panel,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Figments of his being permeate the space between mind and soul,

between time immemorial and presence,

sex and missed phone calls,

It kisses the brain with a neuroplasticity,

one that strings memories and clouds thought,

one that whispers tales of her,
— the beautiful, the sweet, the divine,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

Cupid’s skin hangs from the ceiling like a lynched slaved,

like father’s clothes when he left,

like mother when she took her life,

like the remorse of death,

I touch it,

I touch Nicole,

I touch love,

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered love to forget love, not to be reminded of it,

His arrow cradles itself in the palms of deity,

I pierce myself in search of its promises,

it meanders past the pain,

past the loneliness,

past the last heartbeats,

I see the strobes of an afterlife,

the illumination of heaven,

Yet,

even in the face of eternity,

I still dream of our time together,

 

I am repulsed by this, of course.

I murdered self to forget love, not to be reminded of it.

 

— Miscellaneous Lover.