I want to fall apart quietly,
On a Sunday morning
In the corner of my blue bedroom,
With Pythagoras theorem scrawled
Across the walls in green marker,
The radio playing Sade
The birds chirping their song,
The trees whispering secrets between their sweet leaves
Of the fruit ripening on my lips,
The sweetest taboo,
Of falling in love.
I want to fall apart quietly
Inside Scripture and a cup of coffee
Dark enough to sip from the roots
Of a rich ancestry,
Sweet enough to not despise the origins
Of pain or poverty.
Or generational trauma.
These are freshly ground aspirations,
The dreams percolating at the centre of my mind.
The scent of ambition is heady
It fills this room,
It climbs into my bed
It clings to my clothes,
Demanding to be felt.
So I fall apart in the hope that when I fall back together,
My wholeness will proclaim itself loudly.