
He made love to me


while trying to find her,


looked at me


as though my eyes would


reveal the reason


for her departure.


Kissed me like my lips


were burning with her name;


my moans gathering,


he tried to find her tune.


I stayed, didn’t I?


Tried to show him


what lies within me


is better than what she offered.


I held his head


looked into his eyes,


screaming in anger


“I am here! I am here! Look at me!”


Oh my love,


I soon learnt


she branded her being


through his blood


to the beginning of his soul.


I foolishly


offered flowers


to a man


seeking water.

Desert


When you tell me you love me for the first time, promise you will not 
say it during sex. I do not want our lips to part for a single second. 
Promise me you will not say it when we are drunk on tequilla and lime, 
when the salt has coated our mouths and I can taste it with every kiss we share. Promise me you will not say it when we are out for dinner, 
spending money we do not have on food too expensive for its own good. 


Promise me you will not say it when I'm sleeping next to you unable to memorise the curl of your lips as you whisper it, too dark to see the tears on our faces. Promise me you will not say it on Valentine's Day or birthdays or Easter or Christmas. Please, don't ruin these things for me. 


When you tell me you love me for the first time, make it mundane. Make it uneventful. Make it like we've been saying it for a thousand years 
because when you stop saying it , I don't want to be reminded of it every time I kiss someone new or I smell citrus or eat or I fall asleep or on any holidays at all. Please, do not taint my life with your love and then your absence of it.


2 am thoughts

Two minutes


It's just two minutes of my day


I can sing the happy birthday song in my head


three times to distract myself.


back ... and forth


and it's so repetitive.


And I was always told


sometimes in life we have to do things we dont particularly like


back ... and forth


and i hate the taste of my mouth 


especially when i starts frothing up like ugh 


back ... and forth. 


am I done now?


I must be done now, it has to have been two minutes.


He -


He said it would only take two minutes 


back ... and forth 


he said it would be easy and quick and like brushing my teeth


This-


this is not like brushing my teeth 


I did not swallow my own tongue


He reached between my lips and took it from me.


I shut my mouth 


I did not want him to reach in again. 


I did not want him to take my teeth as well 


back ... and forth 


I thought, if i dont move and I just keep my mouth closed 


He''ll only invade one set of lips


back ... and forth 


Afterwards he gave me my tongue back


but it never really felt like it belonged to me again 


I did not use it 


I did not tell anyone 


I was too scared of losing another part of me 


as if mentioning what had happened meant it would happen again 


back ... and forth 


he made it sound so normal 


like everyone did it 


like it would be weird if I didn't 


back ... and forth 


if I mentioned it then I have to acknowledge it happened 


It was 


only two minutes 


it was just like brushing my teeth 


back ... and forth.

Back and Forth


And so another man broke my heart. I'm assuming this means another six sessions with my therapist, once I decide i'm deserving of healing, of course. The only silver lining is that this boy didn't cloud my heart nearly as much as the last one did or the one before him. They all treat me the same though, badly, with no regard for my heart. They stamp on it as if walking away from me isn't enough. They like to feel their feet as they leave and im so fucked at this point. I have footprints on my heart and their only purpose is identifiability for the next man to show him im easily hurt. I must stink of attachment issues and naive trust. My eyes show nothing but stupidity and I think thats why they love it when I stare up at them.


 These men have broken me one by one. I asked to be ruined and they obliged , grinning and smiling with excitement and you know the worst part? the bit i can only admit in writing is when these men break me, I mourn you again. I think of you and how I never loved them the same way. I think how if it were you instead of them, I wouldnt even bat an eyelid. I would let you treat me however you like as long as it meant you wouldnt leave again because if I knew which butterfly was flapping its wings that caused you to leaveand cause the mass extinction in my stomach, I would spent years inventing time travel just to go back and pull each wing off in the hopes that it may mean you stay with me. I am in many pieces right now as it would be I can assure you all i need , all i want is a hug, preferably from you. My new therapist will probably say that its silly, maybe it is, but God I wont stop hoping for it

Everything is a mess


#### TW : ED
When I tell someone that I take cold showers,


or paint my nails every time I get hungry, 


or starve myself for so long I faint when I stand up, 


I do not want them to push me towards recovery 


I have no desire to get better, 


Part of the reason I tell them 


is because I want that shocked expression ,


that worry,


but with no real consequences. 


The other part, 


secretly, deep down, 


and the one that makes me feel so fucked up and so guilty over,


is that I want a competitior. 


I want them to reply with even worse habits 


with ideas, 


with inspirations,


I want them to tell me how many days they fasted for 


so I can double it. 


I want them to tell me how much weight they have lost 


so I realize I have lost more. 


I want them to compete with me 


but lose. 


Eating disorders should not be competitive 


but god! I am yet to meet a rexie who doesn't burn with rage so hard


I feel the heat radiating off of them 


every time they realize they are not the skinniest person in the room.


I tell people sometimes, 


because I am so proud of the hurt I've caused my body 


Look, look how badly I can treat myself 


I bet you can't do that 


Can you? Have you? Do you?


Tell me 


Tell me everything 


I smell food instead of eating it 


I spit instaed of swallowing it 


I will do anything I can to stop those fucking calories from poisoning me. 


It is exhilarating 


So please stare at me again and tell me you think I have a problem 


Ugh! I am so addicted to your concern. 



Restraint and I are Strangers

I've been thinking a lot about how poets say grief is a beast,


or a looming shadow,


or some cold bottomless lake,


but for some reason


It's different with you.


It's more common than that.


There was no darkness when you left


the sun kept it's pulse,


yesterday came and went


the only difference is the way we carried ourselves 


after losing the weight of one another.


What im trying to say is that our disaster was natural.


I'm not running from monsters or reaching for the surface,


rather i'm living with a new noticeable layer of deprivation 


that i think somehow is residue 


Losing you was destructive, sure 


but it was also organic 


like the way landslides carve wounds into the faces of mountains,


how wind uproots evergreens,


and even how dust settles after a desert storm.


In the day dream I keep returning to 


we are living on different sides of the country 


I am in a studio surrounded by my stories 


and you are filling in your own blanks 


Life has grown over our changed terrain


We've recovered.


Heartbreak Residue

I cried on my drive home yesterday. Now normally I wouldn't talk about something like this but lately Ive been trying 
to acknowledge my emotions instead of crumpling them up or 
lighting them on fire or swallowing them whole. So i'll tell you. 


I cried on my drive home yesterday because the thought of getting there and parking my car and putting my key in the lock and transferring all the heat 
from my hand to the surface of the handle just to step inside and transfer all of the heat from my body to the surface of the air made me want to put my foot on the gas and never stop accelerating. Newton told us that a body in motion stays in motion and the thought of arriving and feeling all of my warmth drain my blood into the mouth of a leech made me want to prove him right. 


But im so tired of it really. Im tired of running and im tired of writing 
about what home really means and im tired of trying to find the right answers to questions I don't even know how to ask. 


How do you go back to a bedroom that feels like a graveyard, where the only things that disturb the dust are the ghosts passing through?
How do you heal in a house that only reminds you of your own hurt? 
How are you supposed to give all you have and survive at the same time?


Is it a victory to conquer race living in today?


Tomorrow, I will live more simply. I will wash my face as the  coffee brews. 
I will hang my clean clothes in the closet. I will sit in the sun for a while. When my sister calls to tell me about her exams at school, I will answer. When the afternoon melts into evening, i'll pull the weeds from the flowerbeds. The ground will not give beneath me, the rhythm in my chest will not falter. 


I become so confused by the drastic that sometimes I forget mundanities exist. That there are rests between the notes and there are other things other than noise. I am trying to entangle myself from the adult desire to proceed without pausing. I'm trying to refrain from turning everything into some inevitable countdown to some inevitable end. 



I am trying to entangle myself from the adult desire to proceed without pausing.

I cried on my drive home yesterday

Some days I open my mouth and my mother comes out. Each word is 
a riot. I find myself slipping into her anger with so much ease it shocks me
sometimes. The world is burning and everyone is waiting for her to put out her flames with her tears because her pain is used to heal everyone else. 


I have inherited the rage that comes with being a safe haven for visitors 
who leave without cleaning up their mess. My mother didn't invent pain but 
my God, does she wear it well. My mother doesnt flinch as she pulls out the knives in her back and rinses off the blood to forget there was ever a time she was vulnerable to the wrong people. 


My mother gives me heirlooms like backbone and strength, and hand-me-down trauma, because I come from a long line of women who bleed on command, and 
cry only when everyone else is asleep. 


An eon ago; I broke this rule when I rushed back home and bawled in my mother's lap because I gave my name to a boy and he returned it broken and damaged and bruised. My mother stroked my hair and laughed softly when I told her that the pain was overwhelming. 
"My child," she said "sadly this won't be the last time you cry in my arms."

****



Like mother, like daughter

### Dear Little girl 
You are not a second choice 


They didnt choose you because you are not worthy 


But because they weren't built to love you 


I know their arms feel like they were supposed to carry you


But the lack of their strength is not a testimony of the weight of your soul


But rather the weakness of theirs.


You are not too much.




### Sincerely, Your big sister.

Dear Little Girl


Haha Hey! 


Why are you here? Oh let me guess, you are snooping around. Are you? No? 
Okay. Okay. Maybe you want to know me. Is that it? Oh come on at least tell me if I'm close. 

Wait wait, you fancy me? (I know you cant see this but I have a very cheeky smile right now). Oh I knew it. 
Is it just me or does fancy feel more romantic or like we are in a movie setting, the renditions are playinng and you, like the decent person you are is courting me? hahahhahaha 

What was I saying? Yeah I do a lot of that. I lose track of my trail of thought easily. So,,, welcome. 
Welcome home. I'd offer you pancakes but I've learnt a hard lessons of bystanders and visitors who come with no intention to stay and are not decent enough to clean up their mess. Ugh! I hate it so please dont overstay your welcome and be courteous enough to say goodbye.  
(I usually have a very heavy british accent when writing my rants so please do them justice. Did you emphasis the ts in hate it ?)

I do not consider myself a writer. I'm just a girl who writes about everything, every little thing in her life. It's a sickness at this point. All i'm saying, extend grace or not, i dont care. (I actually do and i hate that)
Some of these (rants) are true and some are not. I do not care enough to explain that. Are you still reading this nonsense? Aaaaaaw you must really like me. 


Anywayzz if you must know something about me 


    - I like reading. I like books in an unexplainable way. They almost define me.


    - I like baking. The process, the sugar and the smell in the kitchen afterwards. 


    - I am in love with pancakes. I love them the way Frank Sinatra sings; heartily. 


    - I love flowers. The fragility, the beauty and the softness. 


    - I love music. I think I can sing and I use my spotify to write my feelings as playlist titles 


    - I like design. The research, color psychology, the beauty of nothingness to something. 


    - I hate noise. It gives me terrible migraines 


    - Oh God, I have terrible insomnia


    - I rewatch movies over and over again because I love familiarity and can't handle the anxiety of not knowing most times.


    - I am sorta kinda too emotional  

    


Well... I hope you enjoy my ramblings. 

ywamuyu