They sat holding bottles
In their hands
And armpits
Pouring mouthful
Of liquor to fill
Their hollow stomachs.
They gazed at each other
As cat and mouse
And spoke a lot of
Inglish with slain syntax
To devirginate
Their motherland.
The two drunkards!
Spoke of a nation's illusions
And the wilted state of
A nation's elites
Raping the cultural norm
Who raped the temple?
They said something
About Lubowa hospital
And praised the Bus Kingdom
For Grazing well the Gen z's
Digging the tax hole
Who murmured a secured Future.
They gazed at each other
As hare and hyena
And shakily gasped for breath
Of the holy bribe paid
For their nocturnal duties
Poverty pasted on muzzled faces.
Oh, the two drunkards!
Finally hit the climax
And roared at each other of
An accusation of not belonging
Reached for each other's neck
To strangle a refugee within.
© Ankwasa Harlord
Somedays I want to choke myself to death
To strangle my neck until my face turns blue
To wrap the ends of a nylon string to my hands
Like corsages on a ballerina’s wrist
To keep dancing
Until my face turns blue
Somedays I want to carve a pattern on the insides of my wrists
Weaving intricate patterns bleeding red with some sharp elegant cuts on the bluish veins
To watch myself bleed to death
To paint the walls of a room with splattering designs
To burn my body alive
What a waste my brain wants to say
Worth the experience my heart believes
The pain the horror the infliction
To be able to write about a burning body
After having experienced it thoroughly
To watch the blood drip down
Drop by drop, trickling
Darker splashes on the top
Faded ones by the bottom
I wonder if I spin
Would the patterns turn more beautiful
Would it resemble a mandala
If I kept turning and turning and turning
A pen quivering above a page,
a thought drips hesitantly, like sweat
in the heat of fear.
Water does not quench this,
the dry around my voice that
stops my sound
before it reaches the world.
When I reach into the heart of me,
my words lay covered
under a quilt of words
others have used to describe me,
a patchwork identity:
stupid, worthless,
asexual.
In the space between creativity
and the paper that holds my words,
there is a wall of voices,
judging – my mother
laughing at the angst
of a tortured attempt to
understand sexuality,
pretty girls noting
every flaw I’ve ever hid
deciphering my secrets
on the bathroom walls –
these are the things that
constrict my throat,
stop my voice.
I want to
s e
t l
r g
an
the neck of the demon
who pushes me to
be in a state of
r n
e o
b i
ell
toward everything
good and
p l
e u
a f
ce
a
nightmare
eating
love.
Living
cross
exterminated.
The masks that hide your
face may
change
through
downpouring
rain
and days where good
reigns through all, but I can see
thrOugh each one.
I can make out the
image you hide.
Behind
A
Mask,
You
Wake
And
Sleep.
threats regrets
expects
neglect
pace and trace
connects the steps
to face my debts
and get me along
my way...
rent do.. baby crying
need a diaper or
too.. just for this
night to get me threw
sweat.. nightmares..
waking up in the mornng
like night still here...
flesh bones
eyes vison
hands felt
that love in a instant.........
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