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Let me trivialize your bullshit.
Come closer and whisper those lies in my ear, dear.
Coo empty promises of your evolution:
How you are a better man than you were yesterday.
By my prediction it’ll be 2066 and our home will be peaceful, and palm trees will sway like the waists of those who had your attention.
Lets talk about them, shall we? Let’s not.
Tell me, I don’t understand the method to your madness.
You’re an artist, you say, and pain, pain is your air.
Drain my tears, mix it with blood and paint a picture for millions to see.
Now I’m tired.
Feed me honey from the jar on the counter called Deception. Let it linger a little bit more on my tongue.
I’ll regain my strength.
Smirk when I call you out, that’s the only time I see the whites of your teeth.
I lied.
When you scream profanities and I wonder how such perfect dentition came from something so soiled, that’s the other.
Call me crazy baby: that makes two of us.
Wrap your fingers so gently around my wrists and plead with me not to leave.
Tighten your grip and make bracelets out of your ridges.
How could I? No home is more comforting than your tears.
Engulf me with your breath that smells like rum and sin and once again I’m a believer.

 

 

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Post image by Johnny Silvercloud via Flickr.

About the Author:

IMG_5396Adaeze Emecheta. Baby girl in a constantly cold city somewhere in America’s midwest. She’ll try everything at least once.

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I hold a doctorate in English from Duke University and recently joined the Marquette University English faculty as an Assistant Professor. I love teaching African fiction and contemporary British novels. Brittle Paper is the virtual space/station where I play and experiment with ideas on how to reinvent African fiction and literary culture.

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