Private Journal

Blood Bond

bleeding red rose

Whenever they talk about it, they say I was raped. But I don’t agree. When I tell them that, they say I’m in denial.

The truth is that there was no physical coercion; no clothes were torn off. In fact, he never touched me.

And also, he was a gentleman. I guess that was the problem. He conducted himself with the utmost propriety. It wasn’t that he was trying to be deceitful, that’s really how he was.

We met in a most ordinary manner – at a bus stop. I’m not sure what was different about him. I turned and he was there. Thus began our whirlwind romance.

The hilarious thing was how everybody loved him. He was sweet. The kind who loves your mother and plays with your younger siblings. And he was a looker.

I’m lying on the floor, bleeding. He is sitting in a chair and smiling at me. Continue reading

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Fight & Flight

Persuaded?It wasn’t meant to sting, but it stung nonetheless. Not the whispers behind my back, not the thinly concealed mockery, but the words flung at my face. An accusation begging denial. My breathing comes in short gasps, and I cannot find the words to refute them. The accusations hang in the air, and I let them, sagging my shoulders in shame.

My sigh is one of despair. This is all I can do to stop the groan of sadness rising up within me. My first thought is to run and hide, but that won’t do. Nor will my next thought – to throw caution to the wind and fly like a kite without a home.

“You think too much!” he yells at me, as he unsuccessfully tries to slide his hand between my thighs.
“You need to let go and experience things…” his murmurs meet my unyielding lips. Continue reading

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on loan

We borrowed against our tomorrow to live out our today.

Now our todays are in the red, what’s to become of tomorrow?

Does it all end here or do we slave on in despair?

How to slip free of the shackles we put on so carefreely.

Or break out of debtor’s cell when almost everyone seems to live in one?

Categories: Private Journal | 2 Comments

my love

Yes, my love is selfish.

I realised this when she asked me why I kept on loving with such passionate recklessness even after I’d been hurt so many times by the one at whom I’d channeled that intense emotion.

I love for many reasons; discovered it instinctively; live and die with it as my breath. Still, at the core of my motivation for loving, & loving the way I do, lies an intense form of personal gratification 🙂

I love, & will yet still love all the more, because in those moments when I give expression to my capacity for love, I am most alive.

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my present struggle

You ever had that feeling that your present struggles weren’t so much you struggling with adverse circumstances as they were you struggling with your past? As though reality were throwing challenges at you, which if you somehow overcame, you would also somehow alter your very identity.

The trouble with this whole set-up is knowing when you’ve altered your identity enough, because you can never alter the past. You can change the course of your history, but you can’t unhappen the events which have already gone down in that story.

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like new

It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when all I did was dream of interesting times. Now I live them. “I’ve been to hell and back” is a saying as old as time; I’ve got folks who live there. 😀 You could imagine I’m kidding.

Life is funny when you think about the punches she so loves to throw. No uppercuts or straight jabs which really mean anything. It’s the hidden, not meant to be seen ones which hold her sting.

And now, I find myself living in interesting times. Not just dreaming ’em anymore; the dreams have become my reality.

I remember being a little kid, chilling high up in the guava tree in the backyard just behind my room’s windows. Wasn’t plucking guavas; I was plucking worlds from amidst the early stars. These worlds which once I held in the palm of my hands now hold me to the breast of their riches, like a mother would her new-born to those very first spurts of breast milk.

Cosmic Colostrum 🙂
Lol!
I’m high on living.
Hahahahahahahahaha

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forlorn

like something lost
not seeking to be found
like something hidden
no clues in this sand

Categories: Poetry, Private Journal | Tags: , , | 2 Comments

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