I’ve been stalling to write this because I’ve been feeling so much shame and disgust with myself.

I’m not writing this to explain my sexuality to anyone or make it digestible for you. I’m writing this for anyone who’s like me, that thought they had it all figured out and then one random Thursday, the universe just gives your sexuality a fucking plot twist that leaves you questioning for weeks everything you’ve ever known about yourself.

Anyways, I was a girl kisser long before I was a boy kisser, (but I don’t talk about it because that happened with a family member, so I try to block it out). Then for years, I went boy crazy. I genuinely liked, loved and was aroused by boys and men(yes, I had a thing for older men, but didn’t we all crush on some older guy when we were teens? Or was it just me?)

I didn’t have any form of attraction whatsoever towards women when I was younger, I just really loved priyanka chopra and Billie eilish, because they were beautiful in my eyes. Priyanka was and will always be stunning to me, and Billie? She took my breath away with her eyes and her voice.

They were the only two females I adored, till my 15 year old self had the infamous “best friend lore”—you know, the one where you try to experiment with your best friend out of curiosity, but in delusion, you both believe that you’re not bisexual because you’d never do it with anyone else but each other, and then the foolish one falls in love with the other(can you tell which one of us was the foolish one?)

Anyways, she told me the Bible said we must not love the same gender, we were both Christians, so that was taboo. And then she told me it was a phase, and for some reason, I believed.

Even when I ate her out every night I stayed over at her place, I still believed.

Even when I got super jealous when she’d be dating a new guy, even though I had a boyfriend, I still believed o.

Until it wasn’t just her anymore. I fell for other girls, to the point that I wanted to be with them, not with a boyfriend on the side. I wanted all of me to belong to a woman. I wanted it so bad, more than I’ve ever wanted any man, it was crazy.

I went through so many stages of:

• denial

• “praying the gay away”

• hating myself for being so sinful

• grieving my relationship with god

• and finally, acceptance.

And these stages weren’t linear.

Even after dating my first girlfriend at 18, for over a year(which is still my longest relationship till date) I tried to date men again, because I still wanted to get married and have kids and be right in god’s eyes(I mentioned I was foolish, right?).

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At this point, I had been so invested in my girlfriend that I had no eyes nor desire for anyone else, male or female. So stepping out of the relationship I thought I’d spend most of my years in was tough. But I saw it as a sign from god that it wasn’t meant for me, and I should go back to men, how he originally made for me to be(I’m cringing as I’m writing this, chineke).

So I tried, on god, I tried. But I only was interested in them for a couple weeks and after that, I couldn’t stand them. I just couldn’t. It was like the trial period had expired and I needed to dip as soon as possible.

There’s just something about men as a whole that just irritated me, it never took long before I got the ick.

Anyways, after that, I came out, to myself, as lesbian, because genuinely, I felt nothing for men. I couldn’t be romantically attached, neither did I feel any form of sexual attraction. And I accepted it, gladly abeg.

And for 2 and a half years, I went by lesbian, because that felt true to who I was. And as time went by, I became more gay. I experienced a lot of women, all different in their own ways(maybe showing the same patterns of emotional manipulation but that’s by the way), I became more masculine presenting and just less interested in heteronormative standards.

I became politically queer and more of a feminist than I’ve ever been. Being surrounded by women and loving women just makes me want to do everything and anything that supports and protects us, you know?

And I HATED on bisexuals omgggg, I even wrote a whole article on that. Because to me, there was nothing more humiliating than being attracted to a man. Like, why would you see a woman and still choose a man?? Howww biko???

I had a partner who was pansexual and polyamorous(I also had a strong aversion to polyamory as well, because to me, it just felt like you just want to fuck around, just say so instead of hiding under the label) and I gave her two rules:

• tell me about everyone you fuck

• DONT fuck men.

I found sex with men irritating and not stimulating. I couldn’t even stand the thought of it.

So imagine how I felt when I began to like a man and daydream about all the ways he would ruin me in bed.

I was beyond distraught. Fuck, I was ashamed, I still am. Because whyyyy???? How the fuck did this even happen???

I spent weeks thinking about it, denying it with my full chest, contemplating telling my friends because I know I’d get judged.

Then I’d start hearing, “told you it was just a phase”, “so are you bisexual now?” “I thought you didn’t like men?”

God pleaseeeeee, make nobody rage bait me oh chinekeeee😭.

I’m not bisexual, that label triggers me like mad. Because it feels like I have become the very thing I’ve been standing against.

I don’t like men as a whole. I just like him. But even if it’s just one man, that’s not very lesbian of me, is it?

With him, I realized a part of myself that I didn’t know could ever exist again, which again, makes me feel so much shame, I can’t explain it.

I don’t imagine myself dating him, or any man for that matter. I just enjoy talking to him, that was what made me like him in the first place. It was after liking him that the sexual attraction followed.

I don’t feel sexual attraction towards men the same way I feel for women. Right now Mr. Anomaly is the only man I’m sexually attracted to ONLY because I like him.

Any other man I hook up with, I see them as tools for my pleasure, a means to an orgasmic end, so to speak. But I don’t see them and feel aroused, does that make sense?

With women, I wanna flirt with them, play the long game or the short game, idgaf. I wanna dance with them, talk to them for hours and be vulnerable in the first 24 hours of meeting. I wanna lay myself bare before a woman, I want her to talk to me while we fuck.

The voice of men irritate me. Men flirting with me irritate me. Engaging in sexual conversations with men irritate me. MEN irritate me.

Mr anomaly, however, is…an anomaly. He managed to scratch a part of my brain I didn’t think a man could ever reach.

He’s weird, in a good way. And we never have sexual conversations unless I initiate it. In fact I made the first move(I’m just a horny motherfucker, I’m aware), I always do. But that’s not the reason I like him.

He’s just unlike any man I have ever met.

And in the midst of this discovery, I realized I am very attracted to trans men, oh my god.

I saw some at a rave I went to some weeks ago and I was in awe. There’s just something about them that’s just…yum, you know?

I love masculinity, but in women, nb’s and trans men. But when I sense it from men, I’m disgusted(I’ve used this word too many times in this article). I still love the femmes though, you will forever have a place in my heart, y’all are sooo hot, fuck.

I also found out I’m polyamorous. I loved two people at the same time this year. Even though the love wasn’t equal, it was there…I never thought that was something I was capable of.

If I can love my siblings, my parents, my friends, my pets and priyanka chopra all at the same time, why can’t I be romantically involved with more than one at a time?

Call it greed if you wish, I accept. I’m greedy and I want it all. I’m not going to stop myself from loving someone just because society demands I be monogamous.

Oh, please.

I’m even tired of all the labels forcing us into containers and boxes, simplifying us as complex as we are.

We are ever evolving, ever changing, we can’t be in one box forever.

I’m not saying that your sexuality will always change, no. Some of us are so lucky to know that we’re gay or trans from the fucking womb.

I’m just saying that it is a possibility and we shouldn’t force ourselves in one place just because we are afraid of what people will say or how they’d look at you.

Don’t be like me. Whatever you feel, accept it. It’s your sexuality, it’s your heart, and no one else’s, so why should anyone have a say in how you love or fuck?

So, let me reintroduce myself:

Hi beautiful people, I’m zira, I’m a 23 year old woman who has finally decided to accept who she is and give herself room to grow.

And I really hope you’ll finally accept yourself too.

I’m not here to yap about the evils of colonization, it’s all in our faces on the internet, in our country, we’ve just become desensitized and accustomed to it. What I'm here to talk about is something that’s been happening to me for years now, since I started to create.

When I was younger, in secondary school, we were taught literature. If you ask any average literature student in Nigeria about three books they read and analyzed in literature class, there’s a very high chance that Shakespeare will be mentioned, and a very high chance that an indigenous author won’t be mentioned, and even if they are, it would be an afterthought.

And then, I didn’t wonder why.

I didn’t wonder why books written by Nigerian authors were seen as lower quality, because how could we become adept in the colonizers language if we consume our people’s art? To remain in their prison, we must keep passing this chain down from generation to generation until the traces of our indigenes become nothing more than an unfamiliar stench the wind carries in hopes that someone, anyone, remembers.

As I’m writing this to you, I do not know my father or mother tongue, and I am ashamed of it. I really am.

I wish I could write a whole piece in Etsako or Igbo, I wish converse with all those Igbo guys in computer village so I can get a more discounted price, I wish I could gossip with my mum in Etsako about someone in our presence. But I can’t, because the only language I know is English.

Its easier, they say. It’s the binding language of two different tribes joined in marriage, it makes it easier to raise the kids, they say. But then there’s no effort to teach these kids their real language, and even if there is any, it fades in comparison to the advent use of English in every setting. In church, in media, in school, in every space we find ourselves, English is this sign that you are well-read and cultured and posh.

And by extension, I too, wanted to seem posh and cultured and well-read. So when I started writing stories at 12 years old, I only wrote in English. Not just the language, but the settings, the characters and the culture, all void of any trace of my origin, of my life as a Nigerian.

I wrote like the books fed to me in school, in the media, on Wattpad. My characters were always brunette or blonde, had a messy bun or wavy silky hair, with pale skin and blue eyes, always based in New York or LA, because I felt that was more digestible than a queer Etsako girl with brown eyes and locs, based in Lagos state living from hand to mouth.

I’ve been so brainwashed to believe that true literature is an English-speaking white man with a quill, and anything outside that wasn’t…refined enough.

I’m ashamed to say this, but I have never read a book by Chimamanda(yes, I know, I deserve to be stoned) not because I do not think she is talented or she doesn’t hold a torch next to the literature greats, I have heard of her literary excellence and how profound her mind is, I don’t live under a rock. But I just find it difficult to consume African art, and its sad.

Maybe this is internalized racism, maybe it’s the unconscious inferiority complex that makes me feel like anything from our people can never be as good as anything born from the westerners—I know its not true.

I am aware that there is so much wonder and magic born from the lips, the hearts, the hands and the minds of my people, I have seen it with my eyes, I have felt it in my heart.

Writing in English is not a tell-tale of literacy. It shouldn’t be.

There are so many other languages that exist in this world, so many other media of expression, why should we limit ourselves to just English?

So what if I write in pidgin or Igbo or Swahili? That shouldn’t make me come off as less refined than one who writes in English.

Sometimes when I write notes to rant and I slip in some pidgin, by reflex, I edit. Because I think—I want everyone to understand it.

But who exactly is “everyone”? If they want to understand it, then they should translate it, the same way non-English speakers have to translate movies or books to understand.

Basically, all my yapping is just to say that you don’t have to speak or write in English to be seen as educated. I mean, yeah I know I'm writing this in English, which somewhat contradicts the whole point of this piece, right?

I have nothing against English, it’s just a language as any other. My issue is how we’ve been conditioned to believe that learning English is more of a priority than learning our own language and warping our minds into birthing art shaped by the western culture and not our own.

I want to consume more African themed art, music and stories. I want learn more languages and be able to read and write in them.

I want to be able to write proudly about a queer Etsako girl, with brown eyes and locs, based in Lagos state and living from hand to mouth.

I want to be able to write proudly in pidgin without thinking of editing myself out of my art.

It was past 8am, I had just clocked in not too long before that, and I was gisting with my coworker about some nigga who was already catching feelings after giving me head ONE FUCKING TIME after I EXPLICITLY warned him not to fall for me.

And then, my supervisor rushed downstairs and said it in a haste—one of the staff was found dead.

And in that moment, I didn’t feel sadness, I didn’t feel any form of pain. I was still trying to process that another person had, yet again, died. I just wanted to know how, I was curious.

And then she said he drowned himself.

That was the moment it hit me. My coworker then asked, “isn’t that like, sui—“ she couldn’t even finish saying it like it was taboo.

My supervisor nodded quickly, and left the office. And I sat there, still processing this gaping wound that a stranger left in me.

But it seems like I was the only one wounded, because the atmosphere wasn’t sober.

No one bled for him, no other heart ached for this stranger.

Time didn’t stop and grieve the soul that had departed.

The earth didn’t stop spinning.

Life just went on like someone didn’t just die, and in one of the most excruciating ways possible.

What made it worse was that I overheard someone say that the deceased had a mental disorder and he wasn’t, in his words, “okay in the head”

And I was just muzzed for a while, because you’re telling me EVERYONE knew this guy was struggling mentally and they did nothing?

I know some people would be like, “oh, what could they have possibly done?” Uhm…I don’t know, how about referring him to a psychologist, for instance? As terrible as Nigeria is, there are still mental health institutions that exist, though not so many but at least, they are accessible to the public.

And this is a private organization with HMO coverage for all staff, so it was possible for him to get help, but everyone just thought there was “something wrong with him in the head” and they left it at that, like that was a natural character trait of his that should not be disturbed in any way.

I had to take a walk because I felt like there was a rope around my neck, begging me to join him, to end it all just like he did.

That was when I began to weep.

My heart ached because it felt like I had lost someone so dear to me.

I just have a soft spot for people who die by suicide, and I don’t know why. Maybe because I understand how much pain you’d have to be in to take that step.

It takes so much to get to that point, and I started to think of all the stranger could have possibly gone through to end it all on a random Monday.

Or was it really random?

Had he been planning it?

Or did someone or something finally push him beyond what he could bear?

Was this his first attempt?

Did he change his mind midway, but it was too late?

And anytime i close my eyes, I see him.

I see him approaching the waters slowly.

I see him pause once he gets to the shore line.

I see him heave like that’s the last time he’ll ever taste oxygen.

I see him look back at me, with tears in his eyes.

I see him open his mouth, about to say something. He doesn’t.

I see him descend into the waters slowly, like he is trying to savor the moment.

I see him become nothing, just one with the ocean, with the waters.

And I watch.

I hope.

I pray.

I never pray.

And I saw him again. But this time, he was blue, just like the ocean he was floating above.

Every time I close my eyes, I see this stranger drown in front of me. Like a tape playing over and over and over.

I should have seen the signs. We should have seen the signs.

They were loud enough for everyone to know that he wasn’t okay.

But we didn’t listen. We never do.

Because as Africans, mental health disorders are western constructs, right? They are not inherent to us, they are tools of the devil to destroy god’s perfect creation, right?

We are strong, so how can our lives be altered or ended because of a mental disorder that has no physical presence?

It’s so sad that after this stranger, there will be many more like him, that will choose this path and their pain will be explained away by words like “they are just not okay in the head”.

At moments like this when my heart feels like it is weighed down by a wet blanket that was dipped in melted gold and molten lava, with an anvil sitting on top of it, I can do nothing but write. I mean, I can do other things like weep until my eyes turn red, or kill myself. Tempting offers, i must say, but I’d rather write about it.

You know, I always say that writing helps me cope, it keeps me sane in the midst of all this chaos, but I’ve never really understood the mechanisms behind it. Like, how does putting a bunch of words down and over explaining how I feel in different metaphors and similes make me want to kill myself even less? How does it make me feel less of everything?

Maybe the paper begins to share the burden with me, it allows me to give some of my blood, of the pain, of the crippling agony, and it takes as much as I can offer it. It resembles the abyss in my soul, it never runs out of space to swallow pieces of this burden on my heart. It never gets tired of me, no matter how much I repeat the same things over and over and over again.

“I feel like a failure”

“What is the point of life?”

“I feel so sad.”

“I hate myself so much.” yada, yada, yada and so on.

It is the only one that makes me feel like I am deserving to be heard, to be seen, even at the times I can’t see myself. At times, I don’t even know who I am. I feel like I am walking in someone else’s body and any moment now, I’d be kicked out and the real owner of this body will finally take over.

Maybe that is why my heart feels this heavy, because it doesn’t belong here. Maybe that is why there is a battle at hand inside of me, of two identities fighting for dominance.

But I am not strong enough to fight. I haven’t always been the strongest, you know. I cry at the slightest inconvenience, I cry when I’m frustrated, I cry when I feel lonely. But when did crying become a weakness? Who convinced me of that?

A very special girl told me that crying is just the same as laughing, an outlet for an emotion, and expressing any emotion is not a sign of frailty. Sometimes I forget that I too, am human.

I think I’m rambling at this point, aren’t i? But if I don’t ramble, I’ll go insane. My head would start getting filled with thoughts that would only lead me to the grave. I start to think of ways to die. Would I want to drown? Would I want to be run over? Would I want to be caught in an explosion? Freeze till my heart stops? All these questions and more just cloud my mind and then I spiral into myself…this abyss in my soul. I don’t know how it was formed, but its there. No matter how much I try to distract myself, how much I try to ignore it, it finds ways to remind me of its presence every single day.

And people have given their unsolicited advice on how I can start to live again, and this includes:

· Don’t isolate yourself, you cant carry your burden alone, its too heavy to deal with alone

· But distance yourself when you need to, even though it can lead to you isolating as well. But if you don’t, you’ll get overwhelmed, and then your panic attacks will happen. But with or without isolation, your panic attacks still, well, attack you.

· Also don’t get into a relationship in this state, don’t put your baggage on anyone, no one deserves to deal with all that unhealed crap.

· But also, don’t push away people that love you and give yourself a chance to be loved too. You’re depressed, not undeserving.

· Pray about it, everything can be solved if you really believe. Nothing is to hard for god, as they say.

· But if you are still in this state even after praying, then god must have his reasons, we cannot understand his ways. But its probably because you are living in abundant sin as a homosexual, and you are under demonic oppression.

· Talk to someone, it makes the burden lighter.

· But don’t expect everyone to understand you or give you grace. Just because you are depressed doesn’t mean your actions towards others become a telltale of that.

· Last but not least—this has to be my favorite one—just don’t be depressed. Simple.

If any of these advices have ever worked for you, please, do tell. But as for me? Well, I’m still depressed, and I feel like id be better off dead, on some days. And the only reason I haven’t killed myself is not because I am still searching for a reason to live, but because I am a coward.

There, I said it.

I’m too much of a coward to do it. Suicide has to be one of the most brave acts I know, even though the aftermath is grave. Do you understand what it takes for someone to commit suicide? The amount of time they’ve put into thinking of what choice to make? To live or to die?

The days, weeks, months, years that they have ruminated on it, the times they’ve thought about jumping in front of a moving bus, the times they’ve thought of taking a few more pills than the doctor prescribed, the times they’ve thought of using that knife to slit their wrists, the same one they use to slice onions every day? The times they’ve thought of just sinking into the pool, but always come out and gasp for air?

Do you know how many times these people have thought of ending their lives, but didn’t.

Every moment they chose not to, they gave life a chance, they really tried, I’m sure they did. So when you point a finger to anyone who committed, think about how many times they fought, and how long that battle lasted, how wounded they became but still fought till they could no more. Till they had nothing left to give to the world, to their families, to their loved ones and to themselves.

Sometimes I wonder, if things had gone a little different, if someone had noticed the dark circles framing their swollen eyes, if someone had noticed the bruise marks on their skin, if someone had cared enough to follow them home, if someone had cared enough to stand up for them and protect them, if someone had cared enough to check in, if someone was brave enough to report the abuse from the signs they noticed, if someone was just openminded enough to understand their pain, if someone had just given them grace.

Maybe, maybe then, they’d still be alive. Or maybe not. But at least, someone tried.

Please, give us grace. Listen, don’t try to become a miracle worker or something, just listen and be there. There will be times we’ll push you away and make you feel like you’re not doing enough, but please, please don’t leave us alone, don’t leave us to be swallowed by that abyss.

And for people like me, fighting this battle within ourselves silently, wondering If this is all worth it…on some days, it won’t feel like it is, you’d feel like “what the fuck am I even living for?” But there will be highs, mediums, lows and on some days, nothing at all. And it would feel like we’ll be stuck here forever—fuck, I feel that way too, even now as I type this. But one thing I will say is that, we can’t fight it alone, its too strong for just us to battle, if we go in alone, it will consume us and take so much from us, till we have nothing left.

One day, I’ll see a therapist. But till then, I’ll keep writing. On days where I hate my guts, I’ll struggle, but I’ll remind myself of how talented of a writer I am. On days where I feel unmotivated to live, I’ll give myself grace. On days where I think of ending it all, I’ll think of my family, of my friends, of my girl, of the life that I want to live, even though it seems so far from my reach, at least, its there.

I’ll remind myself that I cannot die, not yet, there’s so much I haven’t done, so many insects and animals I haven’t seen, galleries and museums I haven’t visited, songs I haven’t created, books I haven’t published and a life waiting for me to live it.

I hope you think of these things too.

p.s. incase you didn’t know, this is suicide prevention month, so i decided to post this.

The last time a human being truly held me was 6 years ago.

I can forget every other thing, but not that day.

Her name was Tolu, and she was my everything, my world.

Her arms were a safe zone, a bunker protecting me from this world.

Or did it feel like my comfort meal?

What was it again? I cannot recall right now.

But I remember how much she loved me,

until I could no longer let her love me.

Until her love began to burn, disintegrating my flesh from the inside out.

Her arms became a killing machine.

Just a brush of her fingers shot daggers to my spine, leaving me writhing.

Her lips became my death wish;

a kiss felt like blunt force trauma on every part of my body.

I remember the look in her eyes when she realized she was no longer good for me.

Those eyes that once looked at me with adoration

were suddenly filled with pity.

I didn’t know then that was what it was,

until I met others like her, desperate to save me, to touch me.

I tried, believe me, I gave them a chance.

But each attempt felt like large soldier ants and bees picking at my flesh,

picking at my organs.

I could only scream. I could only push them away.

And every time, it ended the same way—that pity.

And soon enough, I started seeing it in my own eyes too.

Soon, I stopped going outside.

The wind was too cruel, slicing my skin deep, just like her absence.

I stopped crocheting, my favorite thing in the world.

The hook became a blazing iron, melting my skin every time I held the pin,

every time she crossed my mind.

I stopped reading novels, because they felt like hot coals in my palms.

The one I read last was…was… I can’t recall right now.

Every time I lay down, a thousand needles pierce my flesh,

continuous, nonstop torture.

I scream so loud that I can’t even hear myself anymore.

Maybe it is that loud in hopes that she’d hear me.

That she’d come back to me.

But I’m not good for her anymore. I know that.

But can’t a girl dream?

Any time I miraculously fall into the painless embrace of sleep,

all I do is dream of her arms, her eyes, her lips, her touch.

What I would give to feel her again. I would give my life.

Because when my eyes open at the break of dawn,

the ache descends on me like a collapsing building, trapping me underneath.

I lay there, my organs twisting into themselves,

my eyes crying blood,

knives diligently crafting me into… into what?

And I have to live through this invisible torture,

this silent torment inside me.

But for what? For who?

With bloody eyes and pulsing, trembling hands,

I reach for the letter on my bedside.

It stings, engulfing my hand in flames,

preparing me for its content.

But it is worth it.

Because every time I read her words,

it fills me with a fire that doesn’t hurt.

It fills me with…hope.

Another day.

It’s currently 9:22 am, I don’t think sufficient time has gone by for me to write about my day. But I want to start from yesterday, the parts I didn’t capture in my last entry.

For starters, I ate nothing, and it has been months since I went a whole day without not just eating anything, but not even feeling a slight prick of hunger.

I don’t know why, but food seemed unappealing, or maybe it was the thought of getting out of bed that felt unappealing, who knows.

All I did was chew milk all day(no, that wasn’t a typo) and a few spoons of peanut butter(which tasted bitter for some reason, maybe it was spoilt, I don’t know).

I cried a couple times, you know, nothing out of the usual. A close friend of mine isn’t speaking to me because I said I wanted to be alone and that I wasn’t okay.

Now, you’re probably like “oh, she did as you asked, What’s the problem?” If someone that I cared about wanted to be left alone, I would still check in, no matter how brief the interaction is, you know.

You know how you want one thing, but feel and expect another? I hope I’m not speaking gibberish. It’s like, I know I want to be alone, Infact right now, I don’t want to talk to anyone or be touched by anyone. Not even my partner. But, I just did not expect that she would give me the silent treatment, after I told her I wasn’t okay—am I selfish for feeling this way?

This period made me realize that I barely allow myself to “be in a mood” and everyone is used to me being there for them and understanding of their mood swings. But my time came, and all of a sudden, it’s weird, it hurts them…oh, does it now?

Anyways, there was some progress yesterday, I spoke to some of my friends, I admitted that I was depressed, and I allowed them to touch me and spend time with me. Thats big progress to me, even though at some point I felt like sleeping again and being alone.

Ive been sleeping a lot too, at every point of the day. I’m never up for too long without crashing again. I’m not even forcing myself to sleep, I just be feeling tired of life, you know. Someone asked me if sleep was an escape, and death flashed before my eyes.

It’s been years since I had constant suicidal ideation, and now, it’s coming back slowly. It started with me thinking of using a blade to carve my thighs, I’d rather my art work wasn’t seen. And then, I burnt my arm with an iron, and it looks like I cut myself, then another idea came—if I “burnt” myself with an iron, it’s obviously a mistake.

But the only thing thats stopping me is the amount of hurt I’d cause the people that love me. I don’t want to put them through that. I had a partner that self harmed, and I know how much it broke me, how much I blamed myself for their pain and I don’t want to put anyone through that.

Now, I’m in bed, alone, just as I wanted. Also, I just started my period—and no, I haven’t showered but I’m not free bleeding, no need to fret.

A part of me is hoping that this “depression” is just PMS and after my period ends I’ll be back to my usual self.

But a part of me knows that Ive suppressed for too long and the tank is finally full. I hope I don’t drown in this, I hope.

(I’m getting better at this journaling shit, damn)

Day what?

I finally took a shit today, after 5 days. And it’s not like I wasn’t eating, I was, just not as much as I used to, I admit.

Ive been listening to “The Great Divide” by Noah kahan and I don’t know why I took so long to listen to this art. (Yes, even rotting in bed, I still appreciate art) he doesnt sing like a vocalist trying to impress, you know. His songs feel like surrounding a camp fire under a sky full of stars and there’s an owl hooting not too far away. He sings like hes just telling you a story in the most authentic way possible, and in this moment, I both adore and envy him.

I envy that he is able to express his/the personas emotions so…authentically. I, on the other hand, am a liar, and not a good one at that.

Ive been repeating the same lie like a broken record—“I’m just tired”, “family issues”, “I’ll be fine”, “it’s just exams”. I guess it’s just easier to say that than say I’m depressed. It’s an easier explanation for why Ive been confined to my bed, why I haven’t showered in 4 days, why I’m shutting my friends out, why I cry out of the blue.

My partner tried to get me out of bed this morning by 9am for an exam, so I could finally shower. I hate that she cares so much, I hate that she has to check in on me to see if I haven’t harmed myself. I don’t self harm, but Ive been having recurring thoughts(like I said, I’m not a good liar, so I won’t even bother)

Anyways, I told her I’d shower so she should go. I didn’t.

My exam was by 11, I finally got up by 10:40. I brushed, wore my creased shirt, sprayed some perfume in hopes I don’t reek, and I went for my exams.

And about 6 people asked me “are you okay?” And all I wanted to do was go back to my bed. I hate being the center of attention in that way, I hate when people care in times when I don’t want them to, because it makes me more aware of how deep I’m in this pit.

And while I was writing my exam, I cried. Not even because I didn’t read at all for the exam, I just started crying out of nowhere. I can’t say why, and that frustrates me even more.

I hurried out after I was done and barely said a word to anyone, because I wasn’t going to pretend I was fine and I wasn’t in the right headspace to entertain questions.

So I went back to my crime scene of a bed, and slept. I’m taking that long awaited shit right now as I’m typing this, but after this, I will sleep again. I will cry again.

I’m getting worse. I wish I could stay in my bed forever but then I’d fail, but I don’t even have the zeal to read. Maybe my brain is waiting for the pressure, or maybe I’d actually fail and disappoint my whole family and drop from a first class to I don’t fucking know.

This is my second attempt at a journal entry, I think I did better this time, I think.

I relapsed.

It’s been difficult to write these past few days, and it’s odd because it’s at desperately perilous moments as this that my creativity is fueled to the max.

But it seems like that spark is nothing but ash now. That well is deserted, coated with dusts and insects.

It’s been 4 days since I fell into this pit, it’s been 4 days since I confined myself to my bed, only getting up when needed (peeing for example), 4 days since I took a shit (and normally, I be taking a shit every one or two days), 4 days since I laid my bed, 3 days since I showered (in an hour it would be 4 days)

I have lost all zeal to do anything. I have exams tomorrow morning and I have not read, I shut most of my friends out, I pushed my partner away. The plate I used to eat 4 days ago is still unwashed (normally I don’t like dirty plates in my area) my dirty clothes remain unwashed, piling up more and more. My bed looks like a crime scene/waste bin, and this is the worst I’ve felt in close to a year.

I haven’t self isolated in years, and now it’s happening again. I cry for no goddamn reason, I think I’m a fucking failure and feel like I’m going to disappoint everyone.

And to be honest, I don’t think I’ll get better. I can tell it’s getting worse. I never thought I’d be in this space again(I just plucked out my punani hair, a long one , very satisfying) I thought I had overcome it, I thought it had passed me by.

But now I see that it never left, it only became a shadow, following me through the years, growing and growing and growing. And now? Now I can’t ignore it. It has demanded my full undivided attention and now, I can’t focus on anything else.

Hi, im zira, and I relapsed into depression. I’m not clinically diagnosed, one day I will be, but for now, I’ll take Ai’s word for it. (For all the Ai haters reading this, I apologize, these are dark times)

And this is my attempt to pour out my sadness, my numbness, my pain. It doesn’t fully encompass it and I’ve failed woefully, but, it’s a humble start.

Survive

Please survive

I heard her voice when I died.

It was louder than the legion of screams occupying my mind. Every word rewriting me into a being I can’t bear to stare at in the mirror.

I cant stand the sight of myself.

I have carved stories in my skin too heavy for my mouth to ever tell, too heavy for my heart to carry. She had to bleed out, somehow.

She’s just a girl after all, right? How could I expect her to carry all that ache on her own?

But you were also just a girl, right? Didn’t you carry it all on your own? These voices never cease to remind me.

Yes, I was just a girl, but what is womanhood if not to shoulder the burden of the world? To bear the consequences of perpetrator and victim? To keep moving even when your feet were chopped off and fed to the ones you are expected to carry on your back?

The expectations outweigh my unfair reality; my knees buckle under the weight of it all. But you cannot stop moving. If you stop, then you disobey the oppressor, the system. And when you choose the path of disobedience, of rebellion, of autonomy, of liberation…then what then is my purpose? What can I become outside the very society I was created and groomed to serve?

I am, after all, just a girl. I cannot be anything else…I dare not be anything else.

And so, like the obedient victim I am expected to be, I keep mute, my throat tight with the cries and screams bleeding from the voices in my mind. I die silently, as my heart bleeds to the floor, I wipe away any proof of her before the oppressor gets a whiff of my humanity, of my agency.

Because silence is safer. Silence guarantees longevity. Silence leads to approval.

Survive.

Please survive.

I heard her voice break through the screams in my head, a voice of reason perhaps?

No. it was the oppressor talking…right? Telling me to keep going, to please them, to serve them, after taking away my ability to.

Life, they say is unfair, and I am very much aware. I am, after all, just a girl. I was born to never be an equal to the oppressor; the very backbone of society was built on that fact…that lie.

The same as the lies I carved into my skin, that I will never be more than this, just a girl. Just a servant. Just a sweet obedient victim.

Maybe that is why I cannot bear the sight of myself in the mirror, because I have become everything society created me to be—weak. Silent. Enduring.

Survive

Please survive

I heard her voice again, this time, for the first time, the other voices were silent. Just as I have been all my life.

She sounded like a warm caress on my battered face, her thumb wiping a stray tear. She sounded like a mother I never had, one that actually cared about me, one that would never turn a blind eye when the perpetrator exercised his right over me, one she would later join him, along with the whole society, to blame me for.

She sounded like she wanted me to finally live. Survival to her didn’t seem like breathing in polluted air. Survival to her was freedom, breaking away from these shackles that have chained my body from the womb. Breaking free from this silence passed down from generation to generation. Reclaiming my voice, a power I didn’t even know I had.

For me to finally live, I had to die. I had to be reborn. I had to be everything they said I could never be. I have to fight.

It will not be an easy fight, I know. Girls were not born to fight, after all. But survival is impossible without fighting and winning. I will fight. I will fight.

And my first battle will be within me.

Every single voice in my head telling me I will never be more…I will fight every single one of them. I will dare to be more.

And I will look in this mirror, and one day, see more than just a girl.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Apparently telling your lungs what to do over and over does not guarantee obedience.

Because as I tell myself those words again and again, my chest grows tighter and tighter, like a plastic bag around my face.

The more I try to struggle, the more it anchors me to this chair, this chair I once struggled to get out of. It’s like a cycle, you know.

I struggle, I get up, I walk around a bit till I unconsciously walk into arms that always push me back into this same chair, and I struggle all over again.

These same arms that once relieved me, gave me a peace I could only daydream about, are the ones around my neck as we speak, nails clawing at the bag, at my neck, at my heart.

And I know I am weak, feeble minded, because if I was strong, why would I still walk into your arms again? Knowing what intimacy with your kind can do to me, a life-threatening affair?

Why would I let your dangerous hands lead me in this dance, lead me back to the very thing I tried to escape from? Am I not a fool? Am I no better than?

And I see the signs, god, I see the signs. The way you hesitate before your lips bleed out a promise from an insincere wound.

The way your eye wanders, for a brief second, to a drug that looks nothing like us. The way your heart races, involuntarily, to a melody that sounds nothing like ours.

The way their name rolls off your tongue even when you’re not thinking, or maybe you were. Maybe they are truly all you think about.

I see it all, how pretentious your hold is, how your smile never travels far enough to reach your eyes, how your eyes wander while we make love, how your heart wanders to theirs while we make love, how your world lights up when they walk into the room, how your arms twitch around me when you think of them, craving a warmth that feels nothing like us.

I see it all, and yet, I still dance. I still let you lead me in this dance. It makes me wonder if anyone who dances with the devil was aware that he was the devil, aware of the evil that brewed within—not so shallow that it would be known to me at first glance, for not so deep that it would be unknown if I decided to look a bit closer, a bit longer.

But I like to tell myself that I don’t know that. I like to tell myself that I don’t notice the small cracks in your façade, the fangs peeking through your smile, promising to rip my heart apart. I like to tell myself that I didn’t see the claw marks on your arms, of other feeble-minded beings as I, who trusted you enough to hold them, who fought back but weren’t strong enough to win.

I like to tell myself that I don’t hear the creaking of the chair from the corner of your room, I can’t see it, but I can hear it loudly, calling, promising that we will reunite. What more poetic way is there to die than by the arms that gave you life?

So as these arms caress me, I like to tell myself it is real, that they are not only prepping me for the slaughter.

I like to tell myself a lot of things, if you lie to yourself long enough, you’d begin to believe it, it becomes the irrefutable truth.

And the irrefutable truth now is that I love this chair. My heart craves the creaking noise, the screams and cries that comes out of her when she is in this chair. Maybe that’s why I look for arms that will always lead me here, arms that will tighten themselves around my neck and chest, arms that will make me forget to breathe, even though I keep telling myself

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Why can’t I breathe?

Maybe I don’t want to.

Because if I actually breathe, if I actually survive this, if I actually fight back long enough and win, if I summon the strength to break this chair beyond repair… what will then become of me?

If, by some miracle, I start to live for me, if, by some miracle, I begin to find life in myself and not in arms as dangerous and pretentious as yours…who will hold me then?

I’ve always loved art. It’s such a beautiful way to express emotions unsaid or unseen. I always found it amusing how an inanimate object could spur so much life in me, so much…feeling. Forgive me, but I have no other words to describe the effect of art on me, asides from the fact that it always finds a way to leave me in awe. To leave me thinking, hopeful, questioning, inspired, longing, all in the same breath.

What’s more powerful than that? For the created to become the creator, and birth so many different things in you all at once. To control what and how I feel with just one look, to leave my mind confused, intrigued and wandering, just with the stroke of a brush, of a pen…of a blade.

The first time I was curious to know how a blade could make me feel was about ten years ago. I remember I was in the kitchen, holding the knife to my wrist. It was a small knife, but a blade nonetheless. I had just finished having one of many arguments with my mother where I walked out feeling more useless than I’ve ever felt, and having suicidal thoughts (which was the normal aftermath of talking with my mother.), and so, for the first time in my life, I decided to be bold.

I held the sharp side of the knife to my wrist, and I felt my pulse race faster than ever before, and the voices? It was like they were screaming in my ear.

Do it.

Do it.

Do it.

And in that moment, as in many others I’ve been in, I thought how warm deaths embrace would feel, how comforting it would be as the blood seeped slowly from my slits, painting a picture that would leave people in awe.

It’s almost romantic, don’t you think?

But a coward will always be a coward, even in the face of an easy escape, even when the route has been planned out for you, even when it would be done in the blink on an eye.

Easy? What about carving a story into your skin that no one else will ever really read correctly, is easy? What about patiently waiting for consciousness to depart from your being, excruciatingly so, is easy?

What about drawing red streams in strokes, too deep to be saved from, is easy?

What about being an artist, is easy?

So I chickened out. Yes, I was a coward. The thoughts never went away, but I never got so intimate with a blade again.

Instead, I switched my tool to a pen. I wrote like my life depended on it, because it did. It was my lifeline, the hands I chose to dwell in, to comfort me, even when the blade’s touch was very tempting. I realized it was better to bleed unto a paper than on the floor, than in my mother’s arms, than in the grave.

I was an artist through and through, but I wasn’t the only one who could create art.

The first time I saw the work of another artist was last year. Their tool of choice was the blade. They engraved their skin with stories my heart could never have the strength to carry. When I saw their art for the first time, I could not control the tears, they fell on their own accord. the strokes filled their arms like tally lines, for every time the world was unkind. For every time their mind was unkind to them.

They were schizophrenic, so they were multi-versatile in their art. They once showed me the beings in their heads and what they said to them. I opened the sketchbook as they spoke, describing each figure and their role in their head. One of the beings would always tell them that all their friends would leave and no one will ever love them. Another being, this one had multiple heads, would always tell them to create art, every single day.

Because can you truly separate the art from the artist?

My heart bled for them through more wounds than one, but it paled in comparison to the rivers that flowed from them. Their evoked so much emotion in me from just one look.

How powerful; for the created to become a creator.

The second artist I met was a girl, just a couple months after. She used a pencil once, she loved drawing; her art could be hung in galleries, she was so talented. But then, one day, she stopped, the pencil was no longer enough, no longer effective in telling the unknown and showing the unseen.

And now, her art was hidden, unknown. I didn’t know she was that kind of artist until a friend of mine told me.

I wept like I had lost someone. I wept even more than I did when my uncle died. I don’t think I have ever been that heartbroken in my life. Then as if the knowledge of it opened my eyes, I began to see her art, worn proudly on her sleeves, hidden in plain sight.

She was 16 years old, she was just a child. What could have pushed a child to become so intimate with the blade? To choose that tool to create art? Is the world really that cruel?

Then I remembered my 12-year-old self, the only difference is that she isn’t a coward. Her art hit different, it hit deeper than any other, because she was young, god, she was young. Seeing children, babies, create this form of art breaks parts of me I didn’t even know existed.

Anytime she smiled at me, my heart shattered into a million pieces, because I know now what was underneath that smile—art that exposes, that confesses.

I try to be there for her, to understand her more, beyond her art, maybe she could be something more than what she creates…what she is pushed to create.

I tried…but you can’t separate the art from the artist, right?

I wish I could save her, I wish I could paint a different picture for her to see, to believe that she can be more than her art, so much more.

The third artist I met, I fell in love with them, ever so deeply. It was a pull so strong I couldn’t fight it, and even when I did, I didn’t win. They had told me that they were depressed ever so nonchalantly, amongst other traumatic experiences they had had, but none of that shook me as hard as when they mentioned that they used to be an artist.

But they assured me that they had not been inspired enough to create art in a while, and in that moment, I prayed to the almighty that inspiration will never come.

I had forgotten so soon, that I cannot command the almighty.

So on a random Tuesday afternoon, I saw them in long sleeves. They claimed the weather was cold, it was raining so it was a convenient and believable excuse.

And for the next two days, they wore those long sleeves, until one day, my eyes caught it. They presented their art to me, proudly on their sleeves. Inspiration had descended without warning, and they couldn’t resist.

It took everything in me to ask them their tool of choice—it was our ever faithful blade. I asked them why, they had no answer. They claimed not to know the inspiration behind their art.

Maybe some art has no explanation, no backstory, no reason. It just…happens, right?

I couldn’t face them in that moment without hating myself. How could I not see it coming? How could I let it happen? How could I have let them relapse? How could I have been so oblivious to the signs? How?

I cant count how many times I broke down. Everytime their face came to mind, I balled my eyes out, my chest physically ached. The pain was too much, too much. It makes me wonder if the pain they are feeling is so much more than this. This ache in my heart.

I want to save them all. I want my love to be enough for them, enough to finally put down the blade. But can I ever be enough for them? Will I ever make them feel what the blade ignites them? Can I ever be enough?

I wish I was.

i have not felt this way in a while.

by this way, i mean like my skin had been pricked by a thousand needles, and the only soothing remedy was your tongue, laced with salt from the ocean. the relief was anything but ordinary.

how can i explain it?

their hands felt like they were searching within me as they roamed, but had no destination, like a vagabond craving a place to call home, a place to finally belong…but their hands felt nothing like home. there was nothing familiar about the way those hands touched me.

what they stirred inside of me was a new feeling, one that could only be born from persistent, callous hands that do not care for tomorrow. hands that know nothing of consequence, hands that would do anything but hesitate.

this feeling inside of me, how do i explain it?

it felt like my flesh was slowly roasting over a volcano, not hot enough to die, but hot enough to leave their mark, to scar me as their territory, their temple, so that any other hands that dare stumble upon me, their sacred temple, would know that i belong to them. that a vagabond had made me home, to them alone and no one else.

these hands slowly engraved themselves into depths of me i did not know existed, explored me like terrain about to be colonized, about to be stolen.

this feeling inside of me could only have been born from hands bold enough to dive deeper than the surface, hands that do not shake at the sight of my resistance, my uncertainty, my fear. hands that stay long enough for me to believe they would never leave, while deep down i know they would.

i might not know the route, the excuse, or the time, but i know for certain that they would.

but i do not make these hands stop. instead, i open myself up like an ancient scroll, buried from the eyes of the known, and i let these fingers trace over my secrets and rewrite them to their taste, to their liking. they dip these fingers into my waters, and i let them swim, let them control the waves inside of me, torrential and violent with every passing second.

i struggle to breathe. i struggle to think, to imagine myself anywhere but here, held by these hands, these hands that were searching for something as they roamed, as i screamed…

we finally found it.

and as these hands departed, this feeling inside of me…

how could i explain it?

how?

I’ve had a couple of this in my lifetime and let me just say, I wouldn’t wish it upon any good soul( but if you’re like that my infamous ex, I wish you all the evil life has to offer)

To fall in love with someone so deeply but not romantically, is so beautiful. The way I love my friends fills my heart, I can’t really explain it. It’s like I want to do everything to make them happy and I want to be around them all the time and my heart physically aches when we argue or when we aren’t on good terms.

The first unofficial friendship breakup I had was in primary school, I was like 6 or 7. Her name was Chelsea, and she was my closest friend, we did everything together, like two peas in a pod. Then we separated, going to different secondary schools and none of us had phones. I thought about her almost everyday and then at some point, she faded into the attic of my memory, along with all our dreams.

After years of silence, i stumbled upon her online again, she grew to be this hot babe, Chineke(I wasn’t gay that time, that was her only saving grace, I swear.)

And to my surprise, she remembered me. We were so happy to finally be reunited, we began to reminisce on all the good times and speak of the what ifs and what could be.

The excitement lasted for a couple days, and faded, just like she did. And I didn’t try to make her stay this time, I didn’t put in an effort to fill in the days of silence, because that love I felt for her then was no more. Because the Chelsea I loved was no more. I guess that’s what happens when we grow; change is inevitable, disappointing nonetheless.

I’m not one to put in effort into someone or something out of sentiment. It’s either my heart is there or not.

The second unofficial friendship breakup I experienced was when I was 14, and it was with a guy. As we all know, BOYS can be quite foolish, so we can all say I had it coming.

I met him through my ex, and he was the best thing that happened to me that year.

He was the only guy that had ever shown interest in me that genuinely wanted to read what I wrote and actually had the brains to break it down with me. He stole my heart with that alone, along with my common sense.

There was no position I wouldn’t photograph myself in for him. No matter how uncomfortable I was with phone sex, I would do it, for him. Because he cared about me, he was my confidant, my safe space, my friend.

At this time, the rate of suicide ideation was at its peak. I was constantly praying for death, imagining the quickest way to die every time I stepped outside. And as I isolated myself from my family, HE became the arms I could freely break in. He never once judged me for feeling like my birth was a mistake; for feeling like death would be so much kinder to me than my mother.

He would always listen, always understand…and always ask for something in return.

Show me what you’re wearing tonight

Show me how wet you are

Why don’t you send me something (with the ever faithful moon emoji 🌚 a classic)

And I did it all, because he would do more for me too…right? He was already doing enough as it was.

He loved me, when I didn’t…right? So how could I possibly say no? I could never say that word to him, I wasn’t an ingrate.

And in the months we spoke, I only met him once at a park, and that was the day I had gotten fed up with my mother(again) and I wanted to run away(again). Because the arms of this online stranger seemed more safe to me than my home, than my family.

And then one day, he ghosted. His father died and I never heard from him again. I tried calling and calling and calling and he never picked, and he dropped my heart and crushed it beyond recognition.

He left me alone, and my depression grew. I was no longer safe, there was no one to hold me anymore. no one to love me anymore. I weeped like there was a storm in my eyes, my heart was heavy with the burden HE used to carry. Only he knew how to carry.

Then months after, he comes back, and the joy in my heart is unmatched. It’s like out of the ashes, flowers had begun to bloom.

Finally, my friend was back, he’d hold me again. he’d keep me safe, like he always did…

My mistake. The message he sent after we reunited online was(I can never forget that text):

Send nudes, for old times sake🌚(that bastard moon emoji)

And I was beyond broken. Those flowers withered before they could even mature.

He never loved me. He never cared. All he wanted was my body.

And with that realization and teary eyes, I blocked him.

Now the first official friendship breakup I had happened years after that bastard. I like to think it took that long because it was three people.

I had been friends with them since I was 11 years old, but we became closer when I left secondary school, when I was 14(it’s a long story). They were MY people, they became MY safe space. They were the first people I came out to, even though one of them judged me(the girl I was fucking o, mind you, but I digress.) they accepted me, they made me feel loved regardless. I loved them with everything in me. There was no one, guy or girl, that I was involved with that I didn’t brag about my friends to. I carried them on my head like mad.

we were a group that I thought would never break, together forever, I’d always say. I truly believed it. Truly.

It started with my ex best friend, I was the one that said I didn’t want to be best friends anymore, because she held grudges to her heart like she was clinging unto air. She never, ever let go, no matter how much I apologized—so I asked for space.

Then my two other friends wanted us to reconcile, but that didn’t work, and I thought that wouldn’t affect my relationship with the other two. But it did.

They picked a side and soon enough, the silence made itself very comfortable and built a home between us…there was no room for our friendship anymore.

And it hurt like a bitch, especially when I had to start explaining to people why we weren’t speaking again, including my parents.

I don’t admit it, but I miss them, sometimes. I grew with them, I changed with them, for years. So I guess it’s normal to miss them this much on some days.

No one tells you how much these breakups hurt, how much of you it takes with them, and how much of them it leaves with you.

The worst friendship breakup of all is the one where you go from romantic partners to friends to nothing at all. Because there’s a part of you that still feels so much for them, a part of you that still loves them, even though it shows itself in another form now.

And when they hurt you, like a dagger sinking into your heart slowly, over and over, and you keep giving them chances to do it, when does it end? when do you finally pull the plug? Is it after all the witnesses have mocked you and named you a fool? Is it until I am no more?

Even then, I didn’t stop caring. Even then. So what does that make me?

When someone you love whole heartedly, hurts you with the same intensity, what becomes of you? what will become of me?

I love all my friends, the ones that remain with me now, the ones that parted, and the ones I parted from. My heart bleeds in their absence, it aches for them in one way or the other.

Sometimes I wish I didn’t feel so much for people, maybe then, when they leave me, it wouldn’t hurt this much.

They’re happening again.

The waves in my soul have become more ferocious than ever

There is no breathing space

No exit

I keep swimming against these tides that have sworn to swallow me

My limbs have grown heavy

too weary

too weak to keep carrying this weight of the world

this boulder wrapped against my chest

I carry more than I am able

I feel more than I am able

than I can hear

but I do not stop swimming

Is it because I know, that either way

an end is waiting for me?

a death of something, inevitable ?

at least, I can choose what is dying

what is leaving me

and that grief is inevitable

loss is inevitable

These waves feel it too

they hit me even more than reality had

they are all I see

all I see

and my lungs feel it too

the times they forget to respirate

the times they forget that I am human

that I need to breathe

that I need to breathe

i need to breathe

But I can’t.

I’m holding my breath as I swim

My mouth below the waters

I try to scream but it comes out muffled

Incoherent

hard to explain

even harder to understand.

To some, it is silent

swallowed by the sounds of the waves

my cries are silent

sometimes I can’t hear it

but i can FEEL it

Its here, beneath all this noise

all these rehearsed performances of living

I feel.

more than I want to

more than I want to

Now my eyes are below the waters

and for some reason, i am not enveloped in darkness

Infact, I see.

I become more aware that I am drowning

I see everything I couldn’t see from above

I could see my limbs again

parts of myself that had been consumed and buried long ago by these waves.

It occurred to me that these waves were my own doing—

I’m doing it again.

Blaming myself and instead of accepting the true cause

because it’s easier to hate myself blindly than to face myself

than to uncover the truth

I try to swim back up

but then I see them.

I see them watching me with eyes filled with concern

some with pity

some with mockery

and some with fear

I see how they look at me

I don’t want them to look at me

I don’t want them to see me

to know me.

Now they’ve seen this part of me

this part I tried so hard to hide

this struggle with myself

I’m tired.

I’m tired.

I’m sinking.

I’m too tired to keep swimming

to keep trying

to keep breathing

Now the waves are silent.

I can no longer see them

and I can no longer breathe.

Will I ever breathe again?

Blood on the floor

no one is concerned.

It’s the centre of madness

blood and gore

eyes bore into your soul

eyes with a longing too chaotic for the normal mind to comprehend.

To be safe

you must believe that

everyone is crazy

delude yourself into believing that

you are the only one who is sane

normal

innocent of hands stands with a madness

I have only dreamt about,

I could only dream about

the way he kissed the earths crust

like the lover that died in his arms

the way his lips quivered

singing songs of devotion to the brick wall

the same songs he sang at the altar

screams of a voice only he could hear

and we all pretend

that he is the only one who hears voices

loud and unmistakable

and we all pretend

that our minds are silent

an echo of a heartbeat

that holds no resemblance to

his songs

his screams

and then we suppress

that voice in our heads

that undeniable whisper

that we are also a part of the madness

the same one we delude ourselves to be exempt from

because there was blood on the floor

a cruel resemblance to the one that dripped

from my heart

from my soul

and we pretend that it is novelty

something we are not accustomed to

like we all don’t bleed

like we all don’t bleed

don’t we bleed?

Should we bleed?

how will we say we are human

if there are no signs of our humanity?

can we say we have truly lived

if we do not come to terms with the madness that lives in each of us?

Can we say we have, truly, lived?

Everywhere is too loud

everything is just too much.

I wish I could dwell in silence, you know,

The type that doesnt get loud even with your thoughts

The type that doesn’t consume you with all the what-ifs and could-bes

The type that doesn’t expose you for the fraud you really are.

I wish that type of silence existed, you know

the type that isn’t overwhelming

the type that doesnt leave me craving this noise

because somehow, it’s less uncomfortable

and coming to terms with myself seems a bit more discomforting.

What I hear in that silence seems a bit more discomforting

because the truth is meant to be discomforting…yes?

It’s supposed to make me unsettled,

confused,

feel things I have tried so desperately to ignore

but is it until the tsunami destroys me that I become aware of the ocean?

is it until the hurricane devours me that I become aware of the storm brewing in the sky?

is it until I am no more that I will realize that this sadness never left?

that it only grew, in the same silence I crave so dearly.

Maybe I was aware of its existence,

of its quiet ascent to my fragile mind

maybe that’s why I craved the silence so much

because I knew, deep down, that she would embrace me, this sadness

and hold me with a warmth I have never received from any being

and I will cling unto her for dear life

even as her flames engulf me.

I confuse destruction for home, for safety

and maybe, deep down, I know what I will find in this silence

but I will still crave her

I will still long for her.

The silence at the dining table is deafening

louder than my mother’s cries just hours before

louder than the profanities that had fled my father’s mouth just hours before

louder than the sound of his fists colliding with her ribs

the bone of his bones

louder than the sound of his belt colliding with her flesh

the flesh of his flesh.

the bruises on my mother’s rib

are a testament to her unwavering love

to the divine ordainment of their union

because out of my father’s ribs

she came to be.

out of his bones

she was formed.

So how can she become anything outside her creator?

“Eat your akara, Amaka, before it gets cold.”

my father would break the silence casually,

breaking my eyes away from the dried blood marking the corner of her battered lips

the same lips she would exalt him to the neighbors and her older sisters

she would sing his praises like he was god.

she had become so adept in the art of lying through her teeth

so adept in the art of hiding his truth and her own

living in this farce.

Sometimes I wonder if she truly believes that she loves him

she says she does.

every blow she takes,

every insult she swallows

it is a testament to her steadfast love

because, before God, two shall become one.

One?

Did that mean she could not exist outside him?

Did that mean there was no escape for her?

That means if she wanted to leave,

then she would have to rip herself apart

and give back the bones and more

he had generously sacrificed

to make her

for her to be.

But she didn’t want to leave

she would tell me

“Daddy is just frustrated, you know how men are, but he loves us dearly.”

because every blow he landed with accurate precision

every insult he shoved down her throat

that was the testament of his love.

because in joy and in sorrow

in enjoyment and in suffering

in drunken stupor and sober anger

she was the one he would always turn to.

And soon, I began to understand.

Love was “for better, for worse” after all

that was what the preacher drilled into our heads every sunday

that was why his wife wore dark sunglasses every sunday

that was why my mother wore dark sunglasses every sunday.

When I was 20, I stopped listening to the preacher, I stopped going to church.

not because I stopped believing

but because there was another god i worshipped devoutly

and this one was obedient.

If I told her to move, she would

If I told told her to hold her breath, she would

If I told her to change her whole appearance to my pleasure, she would.

I worshipped her, and yet,

she made me her god,

her everything.

not just bones or flesh

everything.

But I wasn’t satisfied

I wanted more

because, as humans, our hearts are filled with insatiable greed,

that’s what the preacher used to say

that’s what my father used to say.

So I sought for more.

I made her go on her knees

I made her serve me like the god that I was

I made her exalt me, sing my praises higher than any other being in this universe

I made her weep for me

I made her bleed for me

I made her live for me

I made her die for me.

And when she disobeyed? I punished her.

because how can I say I truly love her if I do not correct her mistakes?

if I do not put her in her place?

if I do not make her respect me? worship me?

just like my mother did my father, even while she died in his arms. she viewed him as a god.

she feared him

she worshipped him

she loved him.

Now I am 30, and I am still playing god.

and it’s been 6 years since my father passed, but I still see him.

everytime she looks at me, on her knees, with bruised ribs and battered lips

in her eyes, I see him.

in her eyes, I have become him.

I feel buzz in my legs to my feet

And there’s a certain vibration going through my body

And it makes me question the state of my humanity

If being human is about our anatomy than our spirit man

Or our souls are just roaming, and we are just hollow

Empty and alone

There’s a spiritual connection we all have, It’s like there’s a red thread connecting us together

And sometimes I wonder if I’m safe

Tied to a rhythm I cannot bear but sing

A song assigned to my human ears

To remember for as long as I live

But what about my soul?

Does she not crave to be known?

To be acknowledged

To be seen? Finally

But I can no longer weep over bones

Carcasses that are slowly disintegrating into ash

Into the atmosphere

Lost in the universe

What if we were created for the universe’ entertainment?

So she can have more naive souls pretend that the script is not worth dying for

But never actually living

But when you take that step off the ledge

And the heart race quickens

And your breath is sharp

Before you merged with the soil

Moisture of life that once was

Blood and water

Which is thicker?

Which am I?

How can I choose when I was made of both?

Crafted by the bare hands of a being I cannot even quantify in my imagination

By a power that made me both

good and evil

Heaven and hell

Angel and devil

Life and death

So can I say I have reached my full potential if I have not peaked?

If I have tapped into my complete nature

Am I true if I am not evil?

If a part of me hides away under guise of perfection

Of digestible morality

And we’re just scum of the earth

But is that not what we were created to be?

All of that and more

Imperfections linger right beneath my skin

I strain to see it on my own sometime

To trigger them to my naked eye, another must point it out for me

Drawn with the hand that fed me

That clothed me

Made themselves home

Do you feel consumed by the dark sometimes?

Well I do.

And most of the time, the darkness is me

And I eat at myself over and over and over again

Until I am no more?

And a stranger rips off my face and plaster it on theirs

And live my life

And a truth I could never have the strength to accept

Then I am indeed a hypocrite

1:05 am

I am not as wholesome as people would think

Dig away into me and you will find what you are looking for

A dented treasure, distorted to the eye,

too tainted for the vain

Drooled over by the starved

The hungry

The lonely

Maybe I appeal only to the broken

To the ones that need saving

Maybe those are the only people that would need me

Love me

If I am of no use to you, can you ever love me?

I feel there is nothing more vain than love

Nothing more selfish than love

Because the world could burn if it would mean you would smile so beautifully

Too consuming

I heard some Daniel Caesar now now

His voice is so smooth

It’s like a twinkle of light, of hope in the darkness

Your smile, I mean

And it just softens my heart in some way, and I love the feeling

And I sometimes hate it.

I hate how you make me feel sometimes, because then it’s like I’m laying myself in my most vulnerable state to you

Like you could wield the knife rn and it would cut real deep

But it’s a chance I’m willing to take, because you make me feel things I didn’t think I’d feel again

This giddy shy scared feeling buzzing in my chest when you are near

When you hold me

When you smile

I want to be the Emily to your sue

The Juliette to your calliope

The Ilya to your Shane (and I’m definitely not talking about long distance yearning for close to a decade)

I want to be yours and I want you to be mine, without fear

I just want and want and desire and desire

But will I ever be satisfied?

Will you ever be satisfied with me?

With life?

I think one of the main components of the human experience is to yearn and want and desire and forever chase a high that we will never get until we perish from the earths surface and fade into the galaxy

Hopefully becoming a star

Oh, how I’d like to be a star

Stirring hope and peace in the hearts of people even when my voice can no longer be heard

Death is such a satisfying and terrifying concept that I want to experience, but hopefully not right now

Ive stopped hoping to die

But I forgot that death comes in so many forms

I don’t have to be buried to die.

I don’t have to be a rotting corpse to prove I no longer live

I want to live.

Not exist.

Not cope.

Live.

I want to live.

Blood or bones?

Bones because you have to cut into me so deep before you truly see me. Before you can truly know me.

Bones because my flesh has been feasted upon by my demons, and I am all but a sorry excuse of what once was.

Bones because I have been broken one too many times before by the ones I called home.

Bones because I’ve been hiding away from eyes on the other side of the closet doors, certain evils that can never see the light of day. But isn’t that the essence of humanity? Our very existence is a façade.

Bones because is that not all i am? Skin and bones? A corpse that roams the earth desperately searching for purpose, even in the face of hopelessness.

Bones because I have buried myself deep within me, and the one you all see is just a ghost. A phantom. A carefully created version of myself that is palatable to you. That can maybe, be loved by you.

Bones because when you hold me, I have no warmth to give. I am cold, but fragile. I am hard but, somehow…soft.

Void or Abyss?

Void because I am completely empty inside. Void because I have poured all of me into you and there is nothing left in me. Void because life has taken too much from me and more.

Void because anyone that tries to seep their way into me will only get sucked in and devoured by my darkness. Void because there is nothing of light in me. Void because no matter how hard you try, you will never truly see me. Void because even though I cannot see myself in this darkness, I know I am not alone. I can hear them, their voices are louder than mine. And they don’t stop screaming. I have become accustomed to being consumed by this seemingly unending pain.

Void because my heart has been silenced by this pain, this darkness, and now all I can feel is numb.

Rot or Dust?

Dust because I am everywhere around you and yet, you don’t see me. When will you truly see me?

Dust because I float, I have no place I can call home. I have no one I can call home. And so, I float.

Dust because I’m trampled upon by you but never adored. Am I only worthy to kiss your feet? Can I ever be worthy of your adoration? Of your love?

Dust because i have been lost. Forgotten on a shelf of memories, withering away.

Dust because I float, in hopes that you would catch me and…remember.

Dust because when the breath irreversibly leaves my lungs, that is all I’d be.

And maybe then, you would inhale me, and I’d be the air you breathe. Maybe then, you wouldn’t be able to live without me.

You think I chose to be this way?

You think I woke up one morning and said,

“You know what? I’m going to be depressed today and not talk to anyone and just cry all day and cut myself and paint the walls with my blood?”

You think I chose to waste away?

To hate myself and everything I can ever be ?

To loathe the mirror more than anything in this world and beyond?

To push out everyone I love

And not let anyone in?

You think I chose pain?

You think I chose torture?

You think I chose nightmares that appear even when my eyes are open?

You think I chose disappointment every time I realized I’m alive for another day?

You actually think I chose to be this way?

I can’t tell you about my lover, depression, about our toxic relationship. Because you’ll tell me, “Just leave, it’s not that hard.”

If it was that easy, I would have left her eons ago.

But it’s not.

She’s a drug I’ve become addicted to against my will and without my consent

And I don’t know how to leave her. How to tell her I’m no longer interested, how to walk out without looking back.

It’s so hard.

I wish you understood.

“Smile more” They say

“Stop choosing sadness over joy” They say

They don’t know

That I’ve been fighting this battle for as long as I can remember

I have forgotten what it’s like to be truly happy

I have forgotten what’s it’s like to not feel like the whole world is against me and I’m a mistake and I’m not worthy of joy or life.

It’s funny how you’ll still say I chose to be this way, and I could leave whenever I wanted.

If only you knew.

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