It’s hard to get inside my head.
Many pendulums of unfinished thoughts
Each swiveling recklessly off the edge of a
Words dripping from an orange amber suckle
Succulent metaphors ready to burst from a
Often, these blobs have become liquefied,
And they’ve seeped through cracks and ran
Slowly down my cheeks, a terrifying thing,
Because then, those who knock incessantly on the
Cranial door, relentlessly with no
Can finally see what was hidden inside this
And it is the strangest thing.
About the Author:
Ngozi Cole is a storyteller who believes in the power of individual narrative for transformative collective change.A freelance journalist and writer, Ngozi covers issues surrounding gender and mental health in Sierra Leone. Ngozi is a 2013 recipient of the National Youth Excellence Award for Leadership in Sierra Leone, an exhibition of her deep commitment to her country. She has contributed to Voice of Women Initiative, For Harriet, Open Society’s Open Space, and African Youth Journal. She has lived and worked in The Gambia, South Africa, US, Brazil and Ghana,and describes herself as a global citizen.She blogs at sepiadahlia.com. Catch her on twitter @ngozimcole for tweets on feminism and breaking news!