A Kiss before Friday

Let’s not play this game termed desire

It tires me so

She opens her palm

and in the center of the crease

a form,

translucent, symmetrical

like the dew-drop on a rose petal.


I  just want to talk

about how I feel

I’m meant to be somewhere

next to you.

and here you are,

before me.

Maybe there is a God after all.


She glances down

her hands, quivering

perhaps shock overwhelms her,

or desire reveals itself?



Her eyes say

We yearn for the truth

in the most outrageous ways,

but her heart is beguiled

by the insidious tales

of a hopeless romantic.


She said,

Let’s get drunk on bourbon

and share a kiss before Friday,

sway with me around the courthouse

like it’s nobody’s business.

Our voices echo

a tone of youthful promises.



The dance steps of the performer she knew

became the footprints of a stranger

At least we agree

that to love a stranger is one thing

but to live with them is another.








The tunnel


We thought we could escape our troubles. We thought if we climbed the ladder fast enough, no one would stop us.


Across the bed from him, I sat.

“I like you, I really do.”

He blushed, licked his lips and placed a palm on my thigh. I liked that. I shut my eyes and allowed myself to dwell on this simple pleasure. His hands lingered from my thighs up to my waist before grazing my cheeks. I opened my eyes to meet his pearly hazel ones. It was the first time I permitted myself to look so closely into someone’s eyes. It was intriguing to see them dilate. He parted his lips and I listened to the words that fumbled out….

A Volcano erupted in my heart. My being was shaking; like an earthquake, like an explosion went off in my head. My ears could bleed, my voice was gone, My lips were quivering from the horror when he said, “I trust you”.

I jumped up, and for a second or five, I was patting myself as if searching for something. His face grew worrisome and he constantly asked me what was wrong.

“I have to get out of here”

“Where to? this is your house”.

“Nowhere,” I replied, “Just need a walk.”

I sprinted out the room into the night. My legs were moving, one after the next. The people I walked past were staring at me, as if in shock or sheer curiosity. Maybe I have something on my face but I’m acting as normal as I possibly can. My mind is a war zone, the more I try to focus, the more nothing seems to make sense. All I see is a tunnel of darkness that I’ve never been brave enough to walk through to the other side. But now, it beckons me and right there in the park, I could make something out of the rusty air. A tunnel.

“Idara,” I heard a voice call from within the tunnel. It sounded like a child with a thick accent, Western African perhaps, “come”.

“Why” I muttered hesitantly

“Because you will never be able to face your truth if you don’t”.

I heard the fluttering of wings, and seconds later a butterfly was in front of me, so close it could perch on my nose. In a blink of an eye, it’s wings would change from violet polka dot to black with white streaks then to brown and white with blue streaks then again, and again, each time, a unique blend of colors. I was too mesmerized that I almost didn’t notice that now there were two of them, and in a millisecond five, then twelve and they just kept multiplying. They formed a line before me and begun flying into the tunnel. I pushed some air down my lungs, took a step and then another and I was inside the tunnel.

My mind was simmering with thoughts and they were chaotic but with the light from the butterflies illuminating my path, I felt less anxious. I noticed the walls had phrases and sentences inscribed on it and there was a sense of familiarity I had when I read them, I remember them because I lived them.

At the tunnel entrance, I read:   “you were always there for me.’ I recall smiling when I wrote that. I recall feeling lonely afterward.

“when I count my friends, I count 1 person 10 times”.  I know who that was for, it came from a sincere place.

the next one read; “you’re the bitchiest bitch out there, but you’re also the only person that piggybacks me home when I’m drunk”. Actually now I just think she’s a bitch.

The farther I got into the tunnel, the more cynical the phrases were. “This may probably be the last time you see me, I’m not going anywhere but I can’t promise I won’t wander off.”

The other read: “I can’t stand the pain, it makes me cry. I want people to care, I want things to work out”.

At this point, I noticed that the butterflies were reducing, disappearing. I was feeling unsure again, anxious. In an attempt to forge on, I staggered through the never-ending corridor with my resilient companions.

The next I saw went thus; “it’s not in my nature to express myself so wouldn’t it be weird, stupid to people if I started expressing myself? wouldn’t it seem like I was impersonating someone I’m not?” 

I sidled on like a lummox drunk in a grave-yard, I refused to look at the walls any further. I tried focusing on making it to the end, but my mind wouldn’t stop buzzing and I kept on wishing I was out of there, I’ve never been more restless.

My gaze settled on one final inscription on the wall and I couldn’t help but read it through; “so once again I was alone staring at the walls as it were empty like my soul.”

I stopped. Thrusting my back against the wall, I read the phrase again as I slowly sank to the ground. The lights fluttered around me urging me to rise to my feet. I couldn’t move, I’d lost all my strength.

“I was alone…the walls…empty like my soul, alone…walls..empty, empty….

The butterflies wouldn’t stop but I ignored them whilst they continued to vanish.

“Get up,” the voice was back. “Come Idara”

“I can’t,” I yelled, my voice resounded through the walls. I watched the butterflies fade until the last resilient wings were flapping right before my nose. Its light began to flicker and went dim until it was gone. Everything went silent and cold. No insects. No buzzing. No light. Just me alone in the dark tunnel.

“I can’t,” I whispered. “I can’t”



I am so regular, I sleep at 7.30 pm every evening and not a minute later. I never miss my pre-scheduled siestas.

I text all my friends in the morning to ask how they slept, and every night to remind them to rest easy. In fact, a week hardly ever passes by without me seeing them. I call home every other day.

I never forget to treat myself to delicious snacks all through the day.

I wear this dress that accentuates my curves and ends 2/3rd of my ankles and a burgundy on my lips to match. I flip my voluminous hair back every half an hour because I’m going out on a date today, can’t wait, he’s perfect in everywhere.

“Nice dress,” he says

I look down at my clammy hands and manage a vague smile

“I only wear red when I’m indifferent”

“You always wear red,” he points out

My quivering lips broadened into a grin.

“It  must desaturate you to always wear a mask that reflects only what every other person wants to see”

I looked down to my glazed glass, watching my merlot swivel back and forth due to the wind drifting towards us

“You know,” I managed, “Just living”.







My Ugly Notebook

This is where I scribble my fascinations.

I go to it when I’m terrified,

and when I need to confess my truest desires.

It rescues me when I fall,

yet plunges me into lucid hazes

I so fondly wish to not wake up from.

It holds onto my hand while coaxing me

to look into the eyes of terror until it quivers like a smitten kitten

and succumbs to my will.


It’s lustrous red cover seals words inked in secrecy,

and bound in confidentiality.

It deciphers my lingo

It understands my agony

My ugly notebook is what keeps me warm on midsummer’s night

and hugs me dearly so I feel my heart palpate through its pages.

Within it, I could procrastinate forever.

I can confide in the unrefined calligraphy

signed by your’s truly.



My ugly notebook is the expression of myself

as an entity, bold. Unfazed

It nurtures my zeal and unburdens my spirit

so that I am light,

resting in the comfort of my words,

indulging in quests I wouldn’t normally

yield to with my eyes open.



This is home. It is  disorderly and messy,

but it is home.

Once in a while,

I find inspiration in these pages

and even more, I find healing.

The things I may never be able to say,

I find zenitude.


My ugly notebook is my fortress of hope in the midst of shadow chasers

It calms my turmoil soul when songs of sorrows escape into the wind,

keeping me engaged in profound chatter

so that I may not think of the dangers I struggle to overcome

in Amphetamine city.

As I plunge into the deep blues to confront my reflection.

It adjusts my gaze to the sunset on Chloé

causing fire & blood to blend into a rare hue of indigo

in order to kill the beast that is the banshee.



My ugly notebook is Alexander.

The Banshee

The air that fell upon her face was warm, misty, stimulating her pores to collect sweat. She was in the park that night because It was the only place she could focus. The moon was full, It occupied a vantage point in the skies, a white core, which she thought looked like a pearl encircled by a red hue; alluring she thought. She would ponder over the moon another night; but tonight, she yearned for release and she was about to scribble until was satisfied.She’d been too preoccupied and her head was buzzing with thoughts… emotions that she couldn’t seem to rid herself of:

This is a tale my father told me; 

one that I have been dying to tell.

There’s a dark place in the sanctum;

The gates are locked; never to be opened.

Rumour has it, only a maiden of pure heart

is allowed passage.

One with a heavy heart; an epitome of youth,

ever radiant, but whose smile has been dimmed;

barely flickering.

And in there, a glimpse of heaven she will discover.

She will discover……….

It wasn’t until moments later that she’d realize that something was unusual, the whittling leaves on the sand were rustling, the swings and see-saw squeaked, defying gravity as though the wind had roused them but as far as she could feel,  It wasn’t windy. She stared blankly ahead, catching a glimpse of something wrapped in black. It was only an illusion she thought, there’s nothing there but trees.Her breaths increased, as she shifted her gaze back to the skies, the red hue had expanded against the white moon and the pearly white had been completely consumed. She lowered her head back down to eye level and the hair on the back of her neck stood on ends, the black statue was considerably closer than before. Her heart pumped so hard, she could hear it, her pupils dilated but her vision blurred. She stood up briskly, a voice in her head whispered, run, but the other said, wait! you’re curious aren’t you?, She took a step forward, feigning confidence and for the first time, she could see something, a curly mess of gray hair.Her head was swarming, her thoughts disorganized. Her lips managed to form inaudible words, “who are you?”.  The figure, now apparent of a woman only grew closer and closer.


She started to open her eyes. blinked again and again; trying to focus on something, anything and gradually she became alert. She twisted her arms ball she felt was a surge of pain radiating through her shoulder blades, she was seated on a chair, bound by shackles, her hands behind her back to the chair.

“Hello,” she shrieked

her voice echoes through the walls and bounced back.

Is anybody there?… Hello?

Out of nowhere, she heard a chuckle, she stretched her neck as far as her bounded torso would allow. and then, with her neck at 90 degrees angle, a little over her left shoulder, she caught sight of a form, a man.

Help, her voice was quavering.

Her view was distorted but the man sat back against the wall at the other side of the room; a mesh wire separated them. He head hung in dismay like he had lost his virtue of hope.

“Help me,” she screamed, this time with tears oozing down the angle of her lips.

He didn’t lift his head up; instead, he reached out his arm and picked up something reflective. He began toying with it.

“There’s nowhere out,” he finally said.

“Who was that woman?”

He began to whistle; ”formed from hell by Hades himself, One look at her and you are mortalized. Your worst fear takes its form, the Banshee is coming, she’s coming for you.With each swirl of the reflective object, he repeated,”the banshee is coming, she’s coming…the banshee is coming….. this time he lifted up his head to reveal a bloody face of one who might have been a handsome man…. she’s coming for you. Can’t you see? there’s no way out.

Hopelessness dawned on her, It was the worst kind of fear that she’d ever experienced or ever thought she’d experience as she tugged and tugged against the ropes but they didn’t budge, a spark went off in her head and she turned back to the man who was still staring at nothing but cold concrete.

“I know you,” she sounded stern. Then suddenly, the doors swung open as she turned. It was the woman. Her hair, a messy gray, her eyes were red, and the corners of her lips bore wrinkles, her posture; slouchy, her nails needed manicuring, but other than that, she resembled her greatly….she might as well been looking into a mirror. “What do you want from me?” she cried

Finish it” her high-pitched voice caused the room tremble, she waved her hand and the shackles dropped from around the girl, freeing her, she handed her a pen, “finish the story”.

“I don’t know how it ends, I make it up as I go”, her double ganger retorted. The Banshee’s eyes sparkled, startling her,  She collected the pen:

The secrets in the sanctum, she must discover.

for she had been created to guard it 

and all that it holds, including herself.

But how could she protect

the secrets locked within the brazen walls

from shadow walkers and harpies

when she is yet to realize

that the sanctum is 

her own heart.

she’d wage a great war,

against the images that torment her.

She protects what she may never remember

but her secrets will turn her into

an abomination, the banshee.

the banshee.

The woman inhaled deeply, “That’s why you’re here,”  she finally said. 




That one over there,

She doesn’t really talk much you know; just sits there, scribbling into that ugly notebook pretending to read meaning into the life’s essence.

There has to be a reason; probably not a good one.

memiors 18

The sun rays splash across my face, beating me with heat as I lay in my hammock, a smile beaming across my face because my eyes are hidden behind these sunglasses, protected from all these shades.

Never been good at communicating; don’t know it, neither did I learn it. I know; I know, most people don’t learn it, they just inherently develop it innit?

It’s not “forming” as they call it, I am simply a student and  I prefer to observe and study life.If I seem alone and mysterious; It is because I silently reflect; so again I am not being evasive, but simply exploring behavior patterns.People have a fascinating hierarchy in life, however, I chose which subjects fascinates me enough to retain my presence and I simply do not care for others.

That I do not care for a subject is not a  reflection of their being and doesn’t mean a damn thing.It shouldn’t matter because a lot of others would prove to find value in them.

I have a knack for getting into my own head more often than most do.It’s more than a welcome visit; I live here now, my sanctum if you will, but like every other environment, It can get overwhelming.So I constructed these walls to keep the sun out and guard my skin, tending to my sanctum and nursing my sunburns. I reinforced these walls, shield myself from the dysfunctional world and by doing so, I fortify the side of me people simply believe to be, unaffectionate.

Turns out, I have mastered the act of zenitude, yielding from the tree of quiescence, finding an ally in it’s solitude and pure energy.If you’re wondering if it’s worth it, I’ll ask; does skin peel after a sunburn?

In the absolutely uninspired, biased lyrics of Nicki Minaj,”I give zero fucks; and I’ve got zero chill in me”.