I have dragged myself to the mirror stand
With my tongue, unobstructed
To spell of what the mirror did reflect
Vast frankly, with no gold weaving
Isn’t the concur to our plights
A tower stride to halting of them?

Confide your tons of melons, in the finest of polythene bags
Thus, the next ten completion of the Earth’s orbit
You’ll find yourself, battling still with breaking of it
With not much improvement attained

I have preferred to undo the bandages I placed on my wounds
Pronouncing them by their true names
Pronouncing my distress just as they are
Letting them open, from my long fettering bandages
My mom once told me;
If you want a speedy heal to your injury, let it out
Do not hide

I have reconciled to abiding in profound honesty
Though dangerous as you deem or it may seem
I will show my wounds, bruises, where I ache and hurt unto you
Whilst I write this, laid in front of me are cassava flakes
Not homemade cornflakes
I won’t paint them with euphemisms

I will call my sufferings unhesitatingly by their names
The confidentiality of our wounds, is never a suburb of persistency
Rather of tenacity
For between them exists no involution

I have reconciled to laying open my wounds
In the brightness of the day, from gilding bandages
And allow the universe flow in its convenient pace
If more damages be inflicted, then so be it
If cleansing be inflicted, then so be it
Yet, never will I ever extol my wounds
And wallow continually in wither




Photo by Tasha Jolley on Unsplash