Thursday, April 20, 2017

Disappearing.



In a bid not to become your mother, you have become the women your dad fucks to remind himself what a real human being feels like.
he has turned your mother into a ghost of herself,
made her supplicate at his feet for years,
and left her to fuck women who are exactly who she used to be.
you are loud and opinionated and everything you think your mother is not.
she worries that no man will marry you
you roll your eyes and ask her if the years of marriage she wears with pride has done anything but suck all the juices out of her skin
but at night, when no one is watching, you worry that she's right and you are not the marrying kind.
you tell men that you are not the marrying kind
and they agree;
you are the woman they fuck after marrying the marrying kind.

The world is burning and you are burrowed into sheets.
He tells you that he loves you and you desperately want to believe it
but you don't.
you smile and tell him that he doesn't.
he is the softest part of your morning
the part where you wake up and watch him and he breaks into a smile sensing your gaze
and i know he makes love like he's the ocean and he's trying to drown you
his hips separating shore from water
like he has only ever belonged to you
i know that he feels like a spiked drink after many months of fasting
and sometimes the sadness requires you to burrow yourself into flesh to survive
i know he burns like he's the sun and you really need the light to walk you back into yourself
but baby, he's just the moon; stealing light sources and pretending to be radiant.
so you need to stop leaving the lights on and the doors open for him
he won't stay and he doesn't belong to you.


love,
leggy.

Sunday, December 25, 2016

A Litany of Confessions

Is there a word for the moment when you win an argument?
when the punches have landed when you weren't even looking and how even though you've won you feel the air gushing out of you in defeat?
it's the same word for the moment when your ex lover chokes out that he's getting married with a tongue that has just ploughed you into supplication.

my friend is falling in love and it's glorious to watch.
she's knitting his name into anything that moves, into any story that dares to draw breath
his existence is always being spilled into conversations and she's kneading love into his body between endless cocktails and tears and burning and she's feeling the most she has ever felt in her life and even though they are tap dancing across continents and around people, he is still her favourite place to exist. he is discovering the grenades between her skin and picking them off one after the other because in this love story the princess rescues herself and the prince is just along for the ride.

I am not in love with you but everything is all light and weightless.
You tell me stories that make me throw my head back and gulp the breaths of others around me
everything is garlic and ginger and cinnamon
i am not in love with you but you walk in like you belong here and
in the absence of speech our bodies make summer when you pour me on your backseat.
I will never call you home but the seams of my body are coming unraveled in your hands and i don't know how to put this much shame into poetry.
do you know what the world sounds like after everyone leaves?
after you have picked your teeth and tucked your conscience back into view
after you have peeled me out of my skin and spilled me on the floor in penance
i lay there and whimper out a prayer,
i say:
Forgive me Lord, but i am so lonely and sad and just looking for a body to disappear into.

Friday, September 30, 2016

25.



I've been grappling with what i want to say in this post.
every year i ask the current year to be kinder to me than the previous year was
i think each year is competing with the last to be my worst year yet.
my twenties have been ridiculously tough.
there were times during my 24th year that i didn't think i was going to survive my 24th.
but i did it, didn't i?
it definitely didn't make me stronger; i think that saying is bullshit but i'm still here am i not?
i survived. i crossed over. i'm here at 25, alive, keeping the demons at bay.
I'm still struggling with christianity. i honestly think to be a very good christian you have to find a way to keep the doubts away but i am not succeeding.
i'm trying to still keep it all together because i literally cannot afford to be an atheist. i really can't. because even on my worst days of not believing, i still need the comfort that there is someone higher than me, who is all knowing and all seeing who loves me and will see me through.

I've been writing this blog for 8 years now.
8 years!!
it's so refreshing to read through it and see how much i've evolved, how much my opinions on so many things have changed, how much i've grown. i think that's really the best part of blogs, to see how far you've come.
while reading through, i noticed how many of my new year or birthday posts talked about trying to be a better person. ha. i can tell you definitively that i have not succeeded on that front. i wish i could be that girl with the sunny personality, running around in the gardens, wearing flower crowns, getting told that my aura is peaceful and being all peace and love (barf) but i'm just not that girl. i can't even be friends with people like this and when i meet them on the internets i just think and have such strong convictions that they're faking.
but as the great Desus and Kid Mero would say - I believe God is still working on me, beloved.

anyway,
here's to 25,
be kinder to me than 24 was.
i really, really need you to be.

love,

leggy.

Sunday, March 27, 2016

It's 1 am in Nola and we're briefly gorgeous.

There's an old apartment somewhere in America tucked in between a city adorned in sin and the sky's blue dress.
Some nights have found me here wrapped around a skin that looks nothing like mine.
you say my full name, always
and i'm utterly unraveled into sighs
there are people who rip you apart
and there are people who pick up the pieces one after another
my problem is that you are both and i've learnt to take the little light that filters in with the darkness
we have been reenacting this 6 year long one night stand and refusing to let go
but darling, it's art to watch yellow skin entangled in white sheets while the moon mocks us
we flitter in between our real lives and boyfriends and girlfriends who come and go
we return and reach for each other in between the loves that we think will stay
i have tried to picture my life emptied of you and every time I find someone whose skin is a reflection of mine, i try;
but i end up seeing you in every yellow ceiling, every broken and splayed sun, every drunken lip.

remember that summer night we went camping
and you played Blind Pilot's "3 rounds and a sound" until i couldn't bear it
we looked out into the starless sky for the longest trying to decide what to do with a love like this
you kissed my neck and built a light house on my chest
and we held our breath and waited for the inevitable shipwreck
I swirled into every part of you, curled up and refused to untangle
i'm terrified of my skin and its constant need for touch
you tell me that the louisiana bayous are disappearing, that the gulf of mexico is swallowing them whole and refusing to let go,
you tell me that the next time we go camping that that piece of land would have been lost.
we never go camping again;
and i think of this night every time i'm on the beach watching the ocean gently try to engulf the earth

tonight, i'm drunk and crying because the demons return sometimes
they creep in when i'm not looking
and you're cooking me eggs
and reading me pages from your medical books; and baby
I would have burnt the world down for you if you'd asked



leggy.

Wednesday, September 30, 2015

24.


I don't need anyone to distract me from myself anymore.
I love the ones who look at me and know without a doubt that I'm in an illicit affair with myself and I'm standing on rooftops and dancing on beaches and yelling at the grooves of myself
I do not want caresses under the cover of the night
I'm tired of whispers, of subtle. I want loud.
I want the sun.
The night is not romantic anymore.
I'm too old for nights, for stars- those fuckers are dead anyway.




So here's to 24, be better and kinder to me than 23 was.



love,
leggy.

Saturday, June 13, 2015

Opiorphin

On that first night when we crammed all of us
into your back seat
and tried to rub the melanin off our skin;
you traced your tongue around the arch of my back and called me magic.

your tongue has become a practiced prayer i say to rid myself of the pain.
you're lying on my bed humming into my skin
because we have nothing to say to each other.
i'm using you for metaphors and similes for love,
tearing pieces of us to reclaim a part of me that has forgotten to write since...
well, since.
you ask me about work a million times because really when our mouths aren't full with each other,
we remember all the ways that we're going to regret this.
i shouldn't be making a home in another's body
but you pull me to you at 2 am and suddenly i don't know what to do with my legs
i haven't stared at them and wondered how high they can jump since you came along.

love shouldn't look like a scrawny, skinny boy who laughs into my skin and doesn't know what to say to me after his lips leave mine to draw breath
i'm not afraid of being moved anymore
but this is not love or the beginning of it

my therapist thinks i lie to her,
i do.
she asks me if i've thought about hurting myself or anyone else,
i say no and that's the truth. i've learnt to transfer the pain into a sea of dark skin.
she asks again if i would ever consider drugs,
i say no. you can tell she's come to the end with me.
i don't have any anecdotes to tell her,
i'm supposed to be happy. i don't fit.
i bore my therapist.

i get to decide who i share this temple with.
the last person i let worship in it burnt it to the ground.
so you get no fire, you get no fuel.
you can stay and pray till you get tired of the silence and leave.

when you stumble out of my bed in the morning,
i smile and wait for the shame to come.
and each time it arrives,
i'm reminded that i am indeed a Nigerian woman.



Sunday, April 5, 2015

I'm not here to talk you off that ledge

on days when life is especially hard
and living isn't cutting it anymore
on days when you stand waiting for the subway,
and have the sudden urge to jump.
on days when you find your ledge and decide to take the plunge
i do not intend to talk you off the edge
you have such beautiful long legs
made for jumping into things that were never going to last anyway.

i understand that you have waited endlessly for tomorrows
but there are so many people waiting
against all logic for tomorrow to bring us something the yesterdays forgot
and we are all waiting
and i understand that you're tired of waiting
and you're so tired of just being

And you just want tomorrow to bring you the strength to get out of bed.
To brush your teeth,
Call your mum,
Be able to say you went grocery shopping.
That you talked to people today
That your brain is behaving itself today.
That the demons didn't come this time
And you don't really feel the tears coming down anymore cos you're so used to it.
And life doesn't let you get up before knocking you down again.

I can write a line or two to convince a lover to stay
I have laid on white sheets
And let the sun find me between yellow arms because I needed to tear metaphors out of the skin of a five year-long one night stand
But I cannot figure out how to ask you to stay.
because i understand that the sadness has refused to leave,
but there are too many ledges with too many beautiful views for you to choose this one you're standing on right now.
so call your mum and let her voice guilt you into staying another day.
and then another
call your lover and let him tell you how his day went
walk to the coffee shop with him and stare at the way his fingers simultaneously kiss his lips and the pages of that book he insists on telling you about.
call your friend and let her tell you about that boy you hate but she won't stop loving
talk to yourself and try to find reasons for you to stay-
you never really read "The Alchemist" and you've been pretending for so many years;
you've never had an orgasm;
Coronas exist;
i never want to be one of those people telling you to "choose happiness"
i've always thought that was ridiculous
because if we could all just "choose happiness" wouldn't we all?
and i cannot promise you that it'll get better.
we're all entirely waiting for better.
And i'm really not here to talk you off the edge
because i know first hand how eroding this darkness can be
but when the demons return,
please, 
please,
set them on fire.


love,
leggy