Poetry

If emotions were old friends

If emotions were old friends, I think I'd sit with nostalgia the longest.

I'd brew her tea and tell her not to leave before the morning,

I'd say I always seem to carry her with me.

Somehow, I think lonely makes for the most committed relationship.

And somehow, contentment is always the hardest to spend time with.

I think me and regret go back the longest, I think sadness is shy but has a way of lingering in most conversations

and I've heard forgiveness is wise but I haven't gotten to know her all that well.

I don't see much of anger

but when I do, I always hear that she is around before I see her.

Sometimes, I want to tell her that she makes a mess of most situations.

I thought I had outgrown pride but she makes her way into my decisions and I know that she comes when she thinks I need protecting.

And recently,

Me and fear have started to bond over the unknown.

She never makes me feel like I am truly alone the way happy does, and I'm scared to tell happy that makes me feel like I'm never enough and that I always seem to chase her as she's leaving.

But see love, love seems to always be there in the aftermath of hurricanes, in the flickers between moonlight and laughter, in the drying of tears and the holding of space.

But I don't always recognise love.

And I haven't always been a good friend in return.

See, sometimes, I forget to ask her to stav, Sometimes, I forget what she looks like and sometimes, I forget that she is the quiet whisper.

Only love can say,

"Brew another cup

and sit with me in this stillness, rest your tired heart,

and I will make space for your soul.

And lay down your guard,

for I will still be here in the morning".

Only love can say this,

and truly mean it.

Of ancestral scars

The men in my family sink teeth into skin;

the women are just bones.

This is how I have learned to love:

to become just flesh,

something to fold my skin into,

something to hold darkness and claim to be whole.

I was twenty four when I too loved a man,

who claimed to be tender while tearing into all that I was.

I conceded that this is how women tend to their lovers,

silently, with rose tinted smiles

and eyes that still do not know how to lie.

The men in my family never go hungry;

the women seem to cave in at the seams.

And this is how I learned to hold on,

long after the love became

gasoline.

Ode to sons

Someday, my bones will ache to hold you against my chest

but you will be stubborn and wild

and just like your mother in your wandering heart.

And your father, he will tell me to let go,

knowing that I did not carry you,

nine months inside my womb

only to leave you at the foot of these wolves.

These streets have become a graveyard.

And I will terrify at the thought of losing you

Your friends, these spineless boys,

will try to teach you

how to be a man, before human.

They will try to claim your name

with blood between their teeth.

But my son, I was your first home.

Remember that I heard your beating heart from inside.

All that you are, is from my veins.

So you be kind,

be honest,

remember the weight of your words

and your fists

will sometimes betray you,

but you will grow through the bitterness of regret.

When the mass of this earth clings to your back,

lay it to rest of the foot of your bed.

When you feel like a refugee in your own body,

remember that time is always fleeting.

Home is where your soul lays to rest.

My son,

when you question your worth

and what it means to be a man,

and when these streets try to claim your bones,

you tell them:

“You are not ready to die.”

You tell them:

“You still need to make your way back home,’

You tell them:

“Mama has already set dinner on the table

and I will not let the seat go empty.”

You tell them

that no parent should ever have to bury their own child.

——————

“Mama, I won’t let you bury my bones

and turn yourself into a ghost.

Mama, I’m coming home.

Save me a seat,

I’m coming home.

Mama, these friends have curved smiles and gleaming eyes,

and these officers have loud voices and louder guns.

Mama, I’m sorry the dinner always goes cold.

I’m sorry you can’t sleep because you keep calling my name.

Mama,

I’m sorry you broke your body to bring me here

and I broke your soul in recompense.

Mama I’m scared, Mama I wanna come home,

Mama, tell dad I’m sorry I didn’t always return his calls,

I'm sorry I outgrew his shoulders

and recoiled at his arms,

Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t know how to carry your name,

And, I'm sorry I haven't become the man you wanted to raise.

Mama, I'm sorry it's 5am and I am a world away,

Mama, I wanna come home,

Mama, I’m sorry this game I played is running its course,

Mama, I'm sorry the path I paved is paved with remorse

Mama, it's so loud on this side of the barrel,

Mama I'm scared,

Mama, it's getting darker.

Mama,

I can’t see,

Mama,

It’s so quiet,

Mama,

it doesn't hurt anymore.

Mama,

I think

they're bringing me home.

Ode to my love

My love spends a lifetime running away from herself

and wondering why she feels alone.

She spends a lifetime alternating between solitude

or seeping into crevices that are tainted.

My love spends her life chasing fireflies and wondering

why they never stay.

She feels too much but says too little

and holds on too hard.

My love is like that,

She outstays her welcome and forgets how to say goodbye.

My love makes for lonely mornings and a mosaic of near misses

but

you

were the first thing I was willing to believe in.

You were the first to make my love feel like she was returning,

the first to make me want to rewrite this story,

to break a generation of broken homes

and lay down foundations that knew how to stay.

But you were just another firefly.

My palms are still scarred

from the home I tried to make of you.

Poetry

If emotions were old friends

Of ancestral scars

​

Ode to sons

Ode to my love