These walls know my unknowing,
Its paint telling of endless hysteria.
There is a story of my father’s house forged in my skin,
What do I call something this menacing?
I embrace the noise of cicadas and pray for fluttery kisses on my cheeks,
wet wings slowly descend to the ground,
I witnessed the death of my spirit in a room of laughter,
with musical notes shoveled into my throat,
I gurgled my song to the amusement of murderers.
I have never asked for much but my body is now laden with water.
_***_
Popoola Ololade Aderemi is a Nigerian storyteller whose works have been featured in African Writer Magazine, Kalahari Review, Cons-cio Magazine, Brittle Paper, and elsewhere. Her writing explores various forms of love, loss, and the collective human experience. She is a SprinNg Fellow and aspires to pursue an MFA degree in Creative writing to better her craft; reach her on Twitter @aderemii_
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