Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Simply exists

Lately I have no been myself
Strong
They see me as strong
But I'm weak
I feel
Or maybe strong is to feel
And weak to suppress
But I don't want to be strong
Some days I don't want to feel
Sometimes I want to simply be
I want to simply exists
Exists in a world where strong and weak do not exist .
A world where me is enough
Where happy sad anxious angry is me
Me
Can't I just be me
Why do I have to be strong
For strong seems like too much
Too big a burden
I am still trying to master being me
Just me

Alive

She was alive because She chose to be.
The moment she died was the moment
She chose to be.
Her life was a choice.
The way her thoughts transformed into actions.
It kept her alive.
To keep her mind moving and heart booming.
She was alive because She felt alive.
The moment she died was the moment
She felt like she did.
Her life was a choice.
The way her negativity consumed her and her idleness removed her.
She had a choice and that made her alive.
Her ability to choose meant her ability to live.
The freedom to choose.
The freedom of choice.

She had one and she was alive.

She was not alone.

In her thoughts so alone.
In her head shes on a throne.
Valued and Revered.
For if she just thought it maybe itd be.
Maybe the crown would be at her feet.
This is what she fought for.
This is what she sought for.
But there were so many of her.
Maybe she was not alone.
The value and reverence simply misplaced.
When she looked closer.
It was too her surprise.
So many crowns. So many thrones.
So many queens.
Out of hiding and shown.
She was not alone.
Her vision was tainted.
Her thoughts so grainy.
She cleared her eyes.
And a breath of fresh air.
When she learned to see beyond her own.
She was not alone.

She lost in spirit.

What he gained in wisdom I lost in spirit.
Where he found strength in my words.
I found weakness in his actions.
She never understood the inside of his book.
So full of pages
So empty of words.
Incomprehensible scribbles
She couldn’t make it out.
She too was empty of words.
Loss of words.
Perhaps he had another book.
A book full of words and vivid pictures.
Shed never know.
She could never tell.
So one day she found a pen and she wrote in his book.
She kept writing in his book.
Shed hope he read it.
She left it under his bed.
The next day . He was gone.
But he left his book. With her pages ripped out.
The words were gone. Her voice gone. Her story gone.

What he gained in wisdom. She lost in spirit.

Mommy, how do I be you when I grow up

She was a little girl with dreams.
Big dreams.
Everyday she woke up and asked her mom.
“Mommy how do I be like you when I grow up”
Her mother worried.
She worried so much .
She worried that if she told her daughter the truth.
Her daughters dreams would shrink.
Small dreams.
If she told her daughter how much she had sacrificed because of her feminity .
If she told her daughter how much she sacrificed because of her womanhood.
She was worried.
She was worried that if she told her daughter the truth.
Her daughter would no longer run to her in the morning and say
“ Mommy how do I be like you when I grow up”
Her mother wanted to tell her how easy labor was.
How easy the nine months were.
She wanted to tell her that the hardest part about being her was being her.
She wanted to tell her daughter that she could be anything in the world but her.
She worried so much.
How could I raise by daughter, with kinky hair and brown skin in a world that hated her.
Hated her for her blackness and her feminity.
But her daughter was five.
She realized for these past five years.
She had survived.
The truth was that while the world hated her. She loved her daughter and herself.
Her self love is what brought her daughter into this world and what kept her alive.
She worried less.
She worried less about telling her daughter the truth.
Her daughter asked her
“ Mommy how do I be like you when I grow up”


Chioma

Chioma. She had a lazy eye with overgrown lips.
Her hair cut low, even though she had seniority.
She always seemed so lost. She always seem so far.
I never understood Chioma. But now I do.
Chioma is the girl who went to fetch water but returned with an empty bucket.
The bucket was once full. But when she saw the blood falling from between her legs.
And on to the dirt road. She used it to wash it away.
She wanted to wash it away.
She took more steps. More drops of blood fell.
Her pain. She had experienced before.
Images flashed in her head. She saw dark brown forearms grabbing her waist.
She opened her eyes. She closed them back.
Images flashed in her head. She saw dark brown forearms grabbing her buttocks.
She opened her eyes. She closed them back,
She opened her eyes again. No images. Just emptiness.
Just her emptiness and her empty bucket.
She went to fetch water. But shed' been to fetch water before.
They'd been to fetch water before.
The water she needed to nourish and cleanse herself.
The water she used to cleanse herself. She felt dirty. She felt impure.
They took it from her. He took it from her.
I wondered why she always felt so lost. But now I know.
A piece of her. No all of her. All of her was so empty and so far.
Her lazy eye and overgrown lips told a story.

One that is hidden in that red African dirt and that bucket of water

If not me.


I speak. They shut me.
I walk . They block my path.
I sprint. They trip me.
I try. I try . I try
Draining my tears down the pipe.
Drowning in this water of opposition.
I once knew how to swim.
I once knew how to float.
But sometimes just being under water is relief.
Away from the shores.
Away from the edge.
Im afraid I will be cut.
Im afraid it too sharp.
The current to powerful.
But if I give up so will she.
But if I give up so will he.
I close my eyes.
I try to trace back .
Back to the time where I learned how to stroke.
Left arm. Right arm. Left Foot. Right Foot.
Synchronized. I gain the momentum.
I gain the strength. My mind recharged.
I speak. And I keep speaking
I walk. And I keep walking.
I sprint. And I keep sprinting.
I can and I will.

Because if not me. Who?