I don’t remember the first time I fell in love. The solace it took to bring me to this troubled place. I don’t recall heartbeats I’ve felt from time to time belonging to strangers and men I once kissed. I don’t remember how to unlearn this silent attitude, the one that brews spite from those who claim to love me.
I’m tired of hearing of self-love. I give up on people who preach about it, people that constantly practice self-loathe.
When was the last time you listened to your own words?
When did you last feel the warmth of words from a mouth you heard and not one you read?
Tell me when your pretence is over, sweet-bitter modern adult.
There’s more rhythm here, in these words, in my ink. There’s a sense of belonging in what my pen utters. Soft, peak and labile when I reread them. I don’t seem to care about wanting or seeking in these words, I urge to be wanted.
I’ve tasted sounds of music. The ones I listen to when in fear of falling, the naked ones’ mum and dad will shake in disbelief if you told them how much they move me. I bear loneliness like my cross just like you, just like everyone else, letting good people go and inviting new devils to dance in my life cycle. I’ve ruined the walls I built with fear and passion, dragging my ego round its fences with pride. I’ve lived for only a few but talk like old adults who don’t shout to prove that they are wise.
How much more in-between can I be? How much more can we?
Allow yourself to feel these ramblings.
Allow these words resonate.
Don’t fight my thoughts too, please.
Dyna Ekwueme Copyright, 2017