We screamed to be heard, marched to express our rage. To bleed with our fallen sisters, for I am her, and she is me. We all lived each other’s suffering.

The dust has settled now, quiet returned.
Yet I still can’t breath. I am still not safe.

I cry silently for my country. I no longer connect to her. My love and pride is only filled with disappointment. She has left me sad, and empty and afraid.

My son asked me, “Why do you refer to South Africa as a she?” I look at him dumbstruck, he continues, “Perhaps SHE has always been a HE!”

This realization is hard to swallow.
This... scares me half to death.

It's cold.
Oh, so cold.
Not outside, not in my room.
In me.
“who are you?”
I only see
red, purple, blue and yellow
in the mirror
the seduction dripping from my lips
the sin between my thighs
safety is an illusion
you tore me in half
but not end me
I am your broken doll

lying on our backs
looking up at the moon
the starless sky stares back at us
i turn to face her
she has her eyes closed
fully immersed in the moment

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.