Dear self, on this remembrance Sunday, I see “you” in this mirror, only to realise; being me, is now awkward. Being you, will never work. Being us, is quite awesome. Splitting us, will always stall.
But; cursed be that man, who pleasured “you” with fifty strokes yet pressured you to end “that” budding soul.
Cursed be that man, who dragged “you” through the lowest lows, yet turned round to call you a common hoe.
Cursed be that man, who enticed you with the proceeds of evil gains yet denied you of his last name.
Once, he drew “us” closer to his whole being, by strength abounding within his triceps. His lips lurked around “our” hips, before his eyes crawled its way towards our gaze. His hands fondled this brace behind “your” back, so as to let loose “our” golden hooters.
By him, “your” tensions were flattened. By “you” his urges were heightened. And between these thighs, his actions were usurping; causing an uncontrollable parting of jaws.
Dear self, please remind “us”, to always say: Cursed be that man, whose thrust consumed “your” weakness and let loose a fountain of pleasures. Cursed be that man who left “us” enthused, and without a will to remain braced. Cursed be that man who made it so; that “we” exhumed heavy sighs, and a rhythmic sequence of jolly convulsions. Soon, a fountain of goodness erupted, from the depths of “our” inside, just while his seed was dribbling. A concert behind doors had now been concluded. But the party for the demons, was bound to commence. The demons “man” bequeaths a girl, whose dreams of loving he has now rased. The demons “man” bequeaths a girl, whose bosoms he once embraced. The demons “man” bequeaths a girl, whose inside he once stayed.
Being me is now awkward. Being you will never work. Missing you is even worse. Yet, thirty days have now gone. And I am still not moving on.
But just so others might know, I left a message in the arctic. It was meant to cure me of malice. It reads thus: Cursed be that man, whose seed I once bore. That same man, whose child is no more. He pleasured “us” with fifty strokes, yet pressured “us” to thwart a budding soul.
Now, “our” innocence is no more. As it were, peace broke “our” heart, and gave it to joy that we might be mocked.
Greed throd our path. And took “us” down south for a drought of love.
A fortress of frown stood tall upon “our” face. Holding a million smiles behind its height.
As “our” soul wriggled around, in pain caused by non other, “I” cried out to justice (on our behalf) – “please protect me from the evils of my own mind and from the goodness of my alluring thighs“.
Do relieve “me” of the tears only a man brings. That “I” might not add another chapter, to this “our” book of lamentations. Let there not be another morning, where the truth in it is soured by bitterness. Where the night before was scorned by loneliness. Protect “us” from the evils of “our” own mind and from the goodness of “our” alluring thigh“.
Credits: Model – Manda Nova Alter Ego – Clarion Haize Writer – Brala Bee (aka beeslens) Editor – Maggy Bee Director of Photography – Maggy Bee Photographer – Manda Nova Photographs edited by Brala Bee