Potable water under the bridge

All it took was to lay my eyes on you, and all the 2008 memories sailed back. That brief five seconds I held you in my arms felt like infinity and right there I knew I’d be seeing you again, very soon. That knowledge became a reality that night and the day after until I realised, just like it once dawned on me seven years ago, we’re going nowhere slowly.

What is different this time around is the fact that I am wide awake and for once it looks as if you’re wounded by my maturity and disappointed that I found it easy to leave and never called; so much so you saw it fitting to antagonize my unfamiliar demeanors.

I’ll admit, I missed you. In fact, I want to be with you right this minute. Perhaps this is possible in my thirties – not in my twenties. Maybe you really are the love of my life and that your lingering taste in my mouth will be something I invigorate for as long as I find you sexually attractive. It’s also possible that you and I will merely live in sin and will continue to regularly make romantic and sexual overtures towards each other, and subsequently live to be loathed by many.

Drafting this post, it feels like I’m 22 years old all over again. God knows; I see you, I just want to fuck your brains out. The fact that your memories of me are simply the best and that in your mind I’m an angel is not helping. The fact that we both know that, every now and then, I romanticize the idea of having you stimulate my anterior rectal wall is not helping. The fact that there the question of whether or not I’d enjoy this remains a mystery is not helping.

One minute, I see us working. But knowing that you have no intention to even try and understand the concept of conciliation in our situation dislocates all prospects. Honestly, I despise this about you – which makes me wonder why I still hold you in such high regard to the extent that your soft sneeze would tear the impenetrable membrane that covers my heart.

Other times, the reality is inevitable and of course excruciating just by observing my friends’ facial expressions whenever your name comes up then I’m subjected to “are you okay?” and “say one word, and I’ll make him disappear” or “you don’t have to see him” sentiments. This is all because they care. Yet, here we are; entertaining the idea of making it work knowing very well this would never work. My poor friends…

Man, I love you. But this has to stop.

You have to work with me and help me let you go. Please help me stop hoping that one day you and I will run away together. Help me stop thinking that one day you will change for me or that I’d ever accept your irrational and selfish justifications.

There is a high possibility I’m lying to myself and that I’m fighting the inescapable; you and I truly belong together. Perhaps, I have to go back and experience once more what used to be in order to swiftly move on to the next chapter. A big part of me wishes that I’d pretend to make it work and have you hurt me in every sense of the word. Maybe then, it would be easy letting you go. But I also know for sure that doing this will damage my career; the one thing that seems to bring me constant joy. So, no.

I don’t know what to do.

Happy read!

The intolerable throbbing discomfort of love

In my experience, and in a world where narrow-mindedness holds power, nothing beats being in love; nothing beats being in love with another man and nothing beats getting hurt by another man.

So many of us find sanctuary in love while this remains the scariest territory for some. It is in love that I cry, despite being duped to believe positivity is supreme. From my face, I have wiped tears of joy and I have cleared my dotted cheeks tears of sorrow. At present, I still live to believe love is the only reason I willing step out of bed to pursue obligations.

I grew up meticulously loved. I grew up around love. I grew up with love. Yet, love remain one phenomenon I struggle to comprehend. As such, I respect love and I’m shit scared of falling in love; that time my past – and the various bedrooms I have walked in – betray this fear. Hard.  

Take me back to when I was inexperienced and immature, I utter these words each time I am hurt by another man. Yet, I look around and apparently something in me continues to entice the same species I intend to escape.

I cannot continue from here…                       

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The bigger picture – The error in my breathing rhythm

I woke up this morning, and I realised my feet hurt.

I woke up and I realised my toes carry distinctively shaped callus of dead skin.

I realised I needed to undo my shoelaces. I realised I tie my sneakers too tight.

I woke up and I remembered I could do without shoelaces.

Just yesterday, it felt like my spirit drifts to emulate gentleness of a stream.

And yet, my feet are stumble and I’m falling apart.

Of course, I smile and continue to probe the minds of stimulating societies every day.

Now I have learnt; so much depends upon my ability to inhale.

So much relies on my decision to confidently stand up and decline.

So much depends upon the art of letting go, and a whole lot on my intuition relating to indistinct quitting.

I woke up this morning, and I realised I needed to change my story.

I woke up and I realised this cannot be my story.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Yes, the sentiment to flip feminine fellas askew is common.

But, I have defined and seamlessly managed the most dreadful pains espoused by my heart.

How have you?

On a normal day, I walk on parallel and ultimately conflicting paths throughout.

Where have you been?

There’s something wrong with all of us. At least my qualms exist in the past.

I woke up this morning, and I realised my life begins today.

I woke up and I realised I’m unclear of your story nor are you an expert in mine.

I woke up and I remembered only I can undo my bondages.

I woke up and I remembered my story is different.

Happy read!

Winners are at war

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Their lips spit firestorms and they speak deluded insight.

We are at war with ourselves. We are at war with the colour of our own skin.

We are at war with what is right; fighting our way out of a plight.

Our complex, strong, and oh so inequitable minds emulate backbones loaded with sharp objects.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Why be happy when I can be thrilled making you dejected?

What is yours is not yours. It is mine and I will assassinate for it.

Why be rich when I can be rich making you poor?

Triumph is appealing to the eyes of those whose efforts are instinctively futile.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Brown bread and butter are not enough to those who are unschooled.

Scold poverty, and goodness and mercy shall follow you.

School your enemies, and madness and mediocre shall comfort you.

Uncouth behaviours reap more riches than the efforts of the prudent men.

 

Winners are at war; belligerent and compelled to fight for what’s strictly theirs.

Hunger has reached far deep; it’s entrenched on the grounds of resentment.

Corporate passages are unoccupied, our brothers are demanding what’s not theirs on the streets.

School doors are closed, our sisters lie in wait for answers in clinics and hospitals.

The Gods are confused. Our mothers and father are shunned. Why is our earth in flames?

Happy read!

Mr. Leadership,

I see greed and silver coating your tribal hands, fiercely.

Why is it then that my palm awkwardly covers the shame and guilt on my face?

What is wrong with my face? What is right with your hands?
 

What is this poverty of which we speak?

When your feet are flooded with the water we drink?

Who is this victim to whom we refer xa eyakhw’ inzalo ixukuxa ngobisi?

 

Yintoni na isisele xa izidywili zimunguny' iqhosh’ elingenamngxunya?

Yinton’ iqhosha elingenamngxunya kwiintsana eziqhel’ ukuhlafun’ iimpukane?

Iyintoni yona inkolo kulowo ungenasono?

 

Take my damn hand, lead me on and bend me over.

The truth I hold will never unfold.

My wasted penis throbs at the sound of your monologues.

 

I could cite excitement, but I’m in pain.

I could correctly rape newness to restoration.

But, what is to come then when I could never clean what I could have in the shower?

 

Happy read!