It’s Christmas morning
Not with a well lit Christmas tree decorated with presents at its feet
not with jingle bell playing in the background
not with the anxiety of getting to open up the presents
It’s Christmas morning
Not with children playing in the snow and erecting poorly erected “snowmen”.
not with peppermint sticks hanging over the burning furnace
a plate of cookies and a cup of warm milk was not placed under the chimney for Santa to enjoy because that is not my reality
It’s Christmas morning
Mother has vaseline dripping from my face. And my lips. And my hands.
Because, harmattan dare not make your dark skin white.
The only thing your mind sees
is
yourself
In your long anticipated “Christmas clothes”
You dare not misplace any of your accessories because mothers wrath would descend on you like an eagle. and what comes after?
she’ll remind you of how she struggled to get them. how. you. have. no. idea. they. came. about.
It’s christmas morning.
you’re excited. elated. fully euphoric.
you’re in church.
church takes forever to end. no. you’re just anxious.
being a show off during this christmas morning is fully acceptable because you waited a whole long year to try on your outfit.
it’s christmas morning
and now the night time has come
you’re anticipating your next christmas
forgetting
you’re aging. getting old. mother won’t be there to baptize you with johnsons baby oil and vaseline
she won’t be there to scold you and remind you how reckless and careless you were for misplacing the accessories she got for you.
who do you think will prepare the ceremonial christmas rice. not mother because she’s old. reaping the fruits of her labour. expecting you to take charge.
it’s christmas morning
it’s. christmas. morning.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 8:09 AM UTC
I once had a conversation with the little girl with salty Tic Tacs streaming down her face, she said that it had been difficult keeping a tight grip on her sanity in a room filled with lunatics. She said that she was more of a recluse because the voices in her head had demanded to be listened to.
The voice tell her all sorts, funny how she referred to them as "people" when they were her own thoughts. She said they all wanted to be heard and obeyed and she had been drowning in sermons telling her how to live, how to be better and how to do better, now she's drowning in an ocean of critics, each word reminding her how she would never be perfect.
Apr 17, 2020
Apr 17, 2020 at 2:10 AM UTC
Alissa, tall, I think 5’9 for a girl it is, dark skinned. Well I guess; losing it all at 18. Her circles a mess so I don’t think they’d ever notice. They never noticed how deep she’d fallen, how far she’d gone, how fast she drowned.
Oblivion is a mere state. Her voice echoed in an empty room. As loud as she could shout she couldn’t shout louder than her vocals. At mere sight, no one would resist, don’t judge a book by its cover and Alissa was the book, we were all her nonchalant and lackadaisical readers
Alissa was perfect, perfect in her acting, perfect in playing the part. A part time queen and a full time slave to her proclivities. Hmm I guess it’s the age, I looked straight in her eyes and saw the rage, not at me but at everyone plus me I felt bad I felt blind so many “what if’s” ran through my mind. I couldn’t spot a black head that stared right at me, I couldn’t clean the spot I missed, it was right in front of me too, I guess I’m not the only one. Even Alissa was her biggest enemy a friend to herself and a foe to herself, it’s a lot to take in, I know. She bottled all those feelings, emotions, and thoughts neatly, held them close to her heart so they’d be alive. Unfortunately, they over grew and began carrying her. On the outside, she carried her bottle, but on the inside her bottle bottled her.
Now there’s Alissa in the pacific floating with the bottle right by her side like a wish bottle, but no it’s not a wish bottle. I can’t reach out to Alissa nor the bottle anymore and it’s sad.
A soul like Alissa’s should never have gone missing, I feel bad for Alissa, I really do, but what more can I do than to write this dirge for Alissa.
They said a good writer not only possesses his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends. This is Alissa’s.
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 5:10 PM UTC