Picture painted by Abasido
I’ve held grudges for mid-nights that refused to give me the right words, for ecstatic memories I needed to feel at times like this.
Here’s how people who applaud the cracks and loopholes in my craft talk to me.
Did you hear them? Did you see what I wrote about them? No, because they feed on silence and that quietness that keeps them at a distance.
Don’t sing praises yet for the way I make you feel. Don’t be confined in my thoughts for too long imagining how I penned it all down. Don’t love me only when you can relate to my pain. Learn to understand this place I choose to write from. Learn to fall with me without fighting gravity. Appreciate the loathe that burns through the words that speak for sanity. Know this. Know this always that I’m a breathing war.
I wish I allow myself be whole everytime my fingers itch to speak. I wish I wouldn’t choose parts of me that aren’t naked everytime I listen to my body’s vibration. There’s art in feeling the way I do before these processes. There’s also the art of picking what my soul’s spirit wouldn’t let the world listen to, self-betrayal.
I’d cut through these layers of my flesh to compromise for losses. I’d paint my worries red to white the agony of womanhood and my evolution. I’d dance to the tune of every poet I adore to feel sane and not hate that I do this. I’d give up writing about lust, what I think of others and where I’d rather be just to outshine these constant thoughts.
I’d betray myself everytime for this art. Writing.
Do you find yourself sometimes in similar situations of self-betrayal? Would love to know in the comment section below. Thank you.
PS– This content was featured by Abasido Michael with his beautiful art inspiring this post. Do check his Twitter page out and appreciate his content and art if you like them. Thank you.
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017.