Young

My mother’s thigh were my stepping stone to the world beyond when I was born.

Day in. Day out. I sat there listening, never understanding the sounds from her mouth.

I clung to her bosom, it was all that I had.

I remember my first movie, Elizabeth Taylor being swooped off her feet.

Maybe I could be a damsel in distress in a marble courtyard  someday, I mused.

It was such a  honor to be chosen as a damsel when I was young.

Some night, mom was my enemy, other nights, dad was my enemy.

Both nights I had someone I could confide in, an ally. My brother.

He stood up for me when  I was defenceless.

The hero I’ve never known until the day he became  mute.

The intimacy I had never appreciated until we became estranged.

Not by time, space, barrier, but by words.

I watched him detach, I watched him change.

Before my eyes I saw him become what I could never describe, what he may never be able to explain.

And that day came when I held his hand, I cried and bursted out in anger

He bowed his head for he didn’t want me to notice the creeping duress that was becoming too real.

His unflexible smirk revealed a cold war unfurling within him, he was no more than ten.

When I was born, I clung to my mother’s bosom, it was all I knew .

I knew my knight in shining armor all too well,  until he went missing, hidden inside a conch.

Now, I have even less than I did then, but I have chosen to be a knight to nobody, but him.

He is small and compact but  will always be my ally.

Then I met a man and when I told him this, he told me, “youth is wasted on the young”.

As we steadily approach the third decade of life, I have to admit that perhaps he was right.

 


Thanks for reading my daily thoughts . Have a lovely weekend and don’t forget to  share your comments and subscribe to get my free ebooks . Much love <3

Image Courtesy:  Silas Onoja on Twitter

 

Unresolved

 

We don’t have to brave a fight to heal

Tomorrow is a new day

but today is war

we bear the heat of uncompromising terror,

press play on life

set actions into motion

our lovers become foes

Happiness is subjective

balance is trivialized

Darkness leads to a fathomless abyss of  bliss,

or disillusion

Man in his feral state concludes;

Content is happiness.

 

Scary isn’t it?

 

The unforgiving nights,

when fog rises up the hill

Our faces, whitewashed

marred by the satirical tides we are yet to discover

but must confide in.

Hence, we sip nectars of laudanum

through straws of addiction

the urn feeds attachments

we hope will never run out

 

 

we’re seated in a row

unchaste in our demeanor

half boisterous; half nonchalant

on the bus to what is an unknown change;

or to change the unknown

a sign that reads,”divergent only.”

on its bumper

Our mutual feelings, unresolved

Control.

When there’s no easier way of letting go

because the truth is only worth denying once.