The Hurting Kind

Those that hurt us are those we love. Those we would die for, protect with our lives, give the world to. Our first choices, whose pain we can never be blind to, whose happiness matters the most.

They hurt us because they can, because we give them permission to. We say take this heart, it’s yours do as you wish.We hope they will cherish it like we do theirs, that it would be safe in their hands; the way their hearts will forever be safe in ours but we hope in vain.

They chose to hurt us, sometimes because they don’t know better, because they are careless they do not realize how it tears us apart these seemingly “little things” that “don’t matter” How could they hurt us if they loved us? because it is the principle of the thing. Love is a game lost by the first to be warmed by its fire.

In a sea of hurt flowing with our own tears, our silent sobs are the soundtrack for this tragedy. Vulnerable we may be, we girdle ourselves in the invinsible armor of the beautific smile, function and the standard lie “I am fine” . The pretence that we are “fine”, as essential to our sanity as it is useless in truth.

But why shouldn’t they hurt us? we have no real reason but the pitiful refrain “but I love you” clutching our bosom like our fingers could EVER cradle our hearts in any sort of comfort. We plead, humble; Don’t do this… Why? “because I love you” “Because I will never do that to you” insipid as we are, we deserve what we get: the mockery

They hurt us because we stay, we pray, we explain and forgive. And after they hurt us we put our arms around them offering solace because we need them to hold us, while we cry the little bit of anguish tears can wash away, for who better to comfort you than that which hurts you

And because they don’t know.

Because we never tell them.

Because eventually they are contrite.

Because we are all need and insecurity, we have to forgive and pretend to forget. We take the hurt and shelve it away in that over stocked room in our mind where it keeps the company of old hurts while awaiting the inevitable new ones.

And love becomes a thing of shame, a timid wilting thing, to wrap around our excuses and spit on when ever strength finds us. A thing to curse and blame, a drug to abuse and crave. A thing that takes only to deprive and never give,as we turn it’s caress into a stranglehold.

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Rain

Once I Prayed For rain. They always say be careful what you wish for, so I prayed instead because I didn’t want to go wrong, so I didn’t wish for rain; I got down on both knees, the stretch of my jeans over them almost as painful as the hard floor beneath them, clasped my hands like the angel I’d forgotten how to be, closed my eyes like I understood trust and prayed for rain. Someone heard my prayer.

I prayed for rain and it poured, torrential waters that pelted my skin plastering the white of my shirt to my dark skin rendering it a thin translucent film. And it rained so that I could barely stand under it as bullets of water stung my closed eyelids, my lips, my ears… my legs wanted to run away but my heart knew, I prayed for rain, this is rain.

I prayed for rain, and thunder was in the fine print and lightning flashes that will slice across the sky, splitting the blue black horizon in two, bright enough to see through closed eyes.And the thunder rolled and roared, even as the wind threatened to steal balance from the most sturdy, I wanted to fall but my heart knew, I prayed for rain, this is rain.

I prayed for rain and it came with a chill, that seeped into my bones and left me hollow, shivering and shaking in its wake. An unforgiving freeze that bartered sensation for numbing emptiness, my teeth chattering as blood was leeched from my extremities, I wanted out of the cold, but my heart knew, I prayed for rain, this is rain.

I prayed for rain, I never wished for mud but mud I got, dirty brown sludge, that had me slipping and sliding, unable to find my footing. It stained my pretty shoes, layering them till I could see them no more, anchoring me so I could only leave if I wanted to but my heart knew, I prayed for rain, this is rain.

I prayed because it would be nice to hear the pitter patter of rain on the roof while remaining detached from the reality, hear the occasional crack of thunder from a distance…watch the lightning cast shadows of rainwater running down my closed windows safe and warm under my sheets thinking of things beautiful. I prayed for rain and when my prayer was answered I didn’t understand  but my heart knew, I prayed for rain, this is rain.

 

Please

What is your pleasure? I ask because I live only to feed your beast. That darkness inside you that is tailor-made for me, that beautifully twisted daemon in you that awakens only for me, I am, that I might give it purpose, malignant as it may be, I live for this torment.

What is your pleasure? For I will give without hesitations, slave to this anguish you wreck on my soul, I will give you all. I will chose your brutal violations over the most idyllic of loving, your careless degradation draws me more than the most ardent of worship. Tell me.

What is your pleasure? Please fulfil me with this knowledge, yes I’ve gone mad but it’s all for you. At your behest I chose you, my one my only, you fed my obsession, now you tire of it, while I pine away unable to want if I’m not wanting you

What is your pleasure? If my life gives you no more joy, would you take it? Would it bring back that sparkle to your eyes to see the cold steal my fire the way they use to sparkle when you beheld my body? Would you take my breath away one last time?

What is your pleasure? Is it the lies that you tell when the truth will cause no storms, is it the manipulation, whispers and clandestine assignations that tear faith part leaving trust bruised battered and broken in the light that breeds foe from friend?

What is your pleasure? Is it to be free of this love that you so despise? Is it freedom from this prison that exists only when you’re by my side? What is your pleasure? I am, to please you.

LITA

Love 

Love makes us weak

Love makes us vulnerable 

Love makes us fools

Love makes us blind

Love makes us violent

Love makes us hate

Love makes us all the things we would rather not be, yet love , this redeeming shackling feeling, is our deepest desire.

Love , which kills us ,Is all we live for

Dear…Dear, John

   I met you again. You must be my curse, wearing so many different faces, to haunt the castle of my soul, a phantom, making your home in the secret rooms of my heart…doomed I am, always to forget old feuds and grudges, to wear my heart on my sleeve and take the plunge. Again and again. Everytime. Because with every incarnation, it is different, it is more, this love changes, deepens strengthens, otherworldly bonds that grasp my hands and pull me beneath the waves of hapless sanity to the stygian depths of painful perfection.

I am tired of these letters…this careful scripting of the fragmentation of my soul, I hoped this time it would be different, that I wouldn’t have to write you anymore…even when the questions came, when out of the corner of my eye I would see you John, I would see you in a man I loved once again…even when the fear came, I hoped, I denied…sinner that I am…once I prayed, got on my knees and spoke the words “please…not again…please” but it was and even happiness couldn’t hide the shadows that surrounded us, icy licks on my spine that left me cold in the warmth of your arms.

I don’t know if you care, I don’t know if I matter to you, but this time it was worse, or it was better…I don’t even know…whatever it was it was more of the old yet all anew… I danced completely naked in bright moonlight with a fully clothed stranger I’d given my heart…till my heels and toes bled on the stony field and the thorny grass. pricked my calves, warm sweat running down my skin while my hair tangled in the damp summer air…I didn’t want to stop…because it was only then I’d have to see your eyes in repose and claim knowledge of your answers to the burning questions that always showed me beauty in ashes.

“Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful? Will you still love me when I got nothing but my aching soul? Will you still, love me?”

Its been months, since you left me standing alone with naught but my broken dreams for company, months since I found a taste for wine and a distaste for seeing the bottom of the bottle…months of waiting for relief, for the least respite from pain, a ray of sunlight on the rubbles of my heart after your merciless reign, but there’s nothing, but me, still open, still raw, my emotions sensitized to painfulness…everything is about me, life has become a satire with one purpose, to make a caricature of my foolishness playing a never ending loop, and I’m afraid John, I’m afraid this time the hurting won’t heal.

You have affected me, and I’ve forgotten what it is to not be affected, don’t know how to be happy without you there to make me sad, I can’t cry…God knows I’ve tried but I can’t because it seems too much like mourning and if I mourn this it means I admit its over…that I made a mistake, you’ve taken it all from me John, my love, my dreams, my vulnerabilities, my sanity, my securities… I refuse to surrender my mask its all I have….this face I wear to tell the world I still have it together. My pretense is all I have after you…do you see how you’ve destroyed me John?

I hope it warms your frigid heart, if you have a heart, I hope it warms you,I hope the spirit of my pain kindles a fire that burns with ferocity and disregard for the acceptable…a blazing fire, red hot…filling your senses with the scent of sulphur…and just when it seems like you would choke on your own fear and efforts to breath, I hope it stops. I hope you are happy. That you find someone to love you almost as much as I do at least…maybe you don’t deserve it but I love you to much to hurt you…even in my thoughts; this love was always my cross to bear, I know that now, I hope when you find what it is that you’re looking for…when you find my tragic flaw…that your treasure doesn’t elude you.
Affectedly Yours,
Hope.

May 29 2015

It’s exactly one year since the day I wrote this piece, I never understood the motivation behind it, or the emotions that led to it but one fact remains never had it been so relevant…Change is what we have chosen, may it be the right choice. 

Today they will give speeches, reiterating once more the importance of our belief in the grandiose yarn of deception they weave and call our millennium development goals. They will play the anthem that our fathers believed in and their offspring barely remember like a snake charmers flute hoping that by staring into sheets of paper typed by faceless aides, and flashing us furtive looks from the TV screen they can hypnotize us into complacency but alas even the hypnotists knows that for the spell to hold you must look into the eyes-and lie

Their bag of tricks must be running out or maybe like the old coin trick or loaded die we now know their secrets but unfortunately the truth lies in the shameful realization that even they, can no longer believe in their own magic, the audience is not captivated anymore as the power of all magic lies in belief.
Today they would stand on the dais decked in faux dignity and solemnity before our the green white green, the shield, the white horses, the eagle, before Unity and Faith, Peace and Progress and talk down at us, their faces filling the TV screen, their voices echoing from our tiny battery powered radios, invading our living rooms. Alas, it remains more than symbolic that they are all we see, all we hear, they are the symbols of our nation, subconsciously we do not see the the representation of our nation in the flag whose meaning escapes us, in the coat of arms we barely recognize…Coctus Spectabilis “what does that mean?” My 11year old nephew asks me but he can tell the name of all key members of government because they have become our symbols…they have filled our minds so we do not realize that the black shield is stained with crude oil, the silver bands are empty, shrinking and turning black, the horses are missing, our eagle- no longer proud- is weak and emaciated and the wreath on which it stands is badly stained, the white turning grey while the green fades to a malignant brown, and there are no flowering buds where Coctus Spectabilis should have thrived.
They have dared so much, self appointed Pied Pipers, secure in the knowledge that their tunes are what we will dance to, but every verse has it’s ending and this is the screaming pause before the next verse…our eyes open and we see:
How they dare us, how their monsters reign terror drowning in the blood of innocents, mothers, children, men- young and old labeled with one damning tag- The Unbelievers, the best have refused to speak, not for lack of knowledge but rather the abundance of so much to loose.
How they dare us, turning our lives into key points for political moves and counter moves, how our futures, education, security becomes mere pawns to be played with and taken away at their whims and caprices.
How they dare us, bargaining with what is ours making a caricature of all we are on the international theatre, a parody of weakness and vulnerability, screaming: “Free for all! We are ripe for the taking!”

How they dare us, highlighting for all the world, that we are nothing but undereducated religious fanatics whose circumscribed verbal literacy barely scratches the surface- Chai! There is God oh! Taking the woman and throwing her back to the age of the Neanderthal, Father speaks best! Cry and beat your breasts, Husband knows best! Do not try to be meaningful.

They have dared us.
We have accepted.

Now they should be afraid.

They should be afraid, their falcons have rebelled, like Frankenstein their own monsters sound their funeral calls, the prophesy of Yeats is once again recalled…the centre WILL not hold! Things WILL fall apart…there is no turning back, we have nothing left to loose, we see nothing to gain by hoping so we wait not for D-Day but by the prophesy of Fela, Dem All Crazy day…when finally we WILL shed the last vestiges of our sanity and take back what is ours…they have driven us mad with pain, stolen out minds with PTSD in the absence of war but now someone should tell them that in the heartbeat of the nation a war drums are beating, in the triangle a storm is brewing, that will not succumb to calm. The desert storm simulating strength in the north must be called to order by it’s creators else it will be drowned by southern tsunami…

War paint. War drums. War dances. Strategy. Prayer. Sacrifice. This is how we celebrate today because we are reminded that the broken idea of this democracy still enslaves…Give me liberty or give me death, for the labour of our heroes past shall never be in vain, be shall resound the war cry and beat the drums… Beat them and beat them loud.

…Beat them, Beat them hard…The blood boils, the mouth foams. We leave our food untasted, our farms untended, our new wives unattended when we wield the drumsticks… (Isiburu -Elechi Amadi)

Aluta Continua. Victoria Acerta

THIS DARKNESS

Sometimes my darkness shows, some times demons roam, sometimes I don’t know if my lights will come on again. Haunted by insecurities so near and dear, they sometimes caress my old heart scarred n scared, Sometimes I feel so cold, sometimes so alone, too many times my mind roams to places I’d rather not know, then lounges in comfort reveling in the feeling that THIS IS HOME.

I feel so deeply, that this old feeling, hurting and killing, will be my ending, the thrills and shivers, I like it. I don’t. Weirdly intoxicating my phantasmagoric need to be antidromic yet normal, because normal is good, the safe must be good…everyone does it, so it must be. The give away, no need to take,the leaping and trusting, vulnerable and open, warm hearts, far from frozen. But this weird is mine…there’s an obsession, deep and soothing, the fulfillment of the feeling that THIS IS MINE

I don’t understand, I want it. I don’t. I want to feel and not crave only the breaking hurts, I want to forget. All the times I’ve been wrong. I want to cry and laugh and be, and know that it’s okay…that all humans are made this way. I want to fall, and not feel just the pain of knees scraped against pavement, of palms stinging or of stomach rolling from the drop. I want to feel just the joy of knowing I might not be caught but I will be helped up, and for a few seconds or maybe a little longer I might find a shoulder to lean on, accept that there might be more than I expected. Hold hands, lean, whisper…and be fine with the feeling that THIS IS MORE.

Sometimes my darkness shows, it’s familiar, safe for one like me who knows, and understands, a weakness that is custom bred to strengthen, a cowardice that fortifies my courage, I hate to love something so strange but in the light everyone sees, sees what I am. Sees me. No one hides in the light. Dark loves the dark, protects it, provides a haven for the broken and flawed, not to fix but to keep. Safe. Away from what hurts. Safe. Free from danger or risk of harm, this feeling? This darkness? THIS IS SAFE