we bonded on things
on our body that
weren't supposed to
be there.

imagine conversing
over what's supposed
to be.

i made a pact
with the night.

if it doesn’t say
anything, then
neither will i.

son comes home from a long day, father notices his son’s eyes begin to water, attempting to hold it all in. father sits son down and reminds him that men weren’t created to be inhumane, without emotion. he reminds son that men don’t always need to split red seas to walk through on dry land; they are just as entitled to allow themselves to flood for forty days and nights if it means that they have the strength to start again,
bigger and better this time.

father reminds son that most things are worth dying for, but sometimes, when you’ve done all you can, you must stand, take up your bed and walk away. some people will expect you to break yourself into pieces and feed all 5,000 of their insecurities. some people will expect you to come out of your peaceful place and calm down their storms before tending to your own. some people will nail you to a cross of their expectation, stab your side then ask you why you’re bleeding. there are many that will pay to see you die, whilst smiling in your face with happy eyes and impure hearts. many will call you one thing, not knowing that that is not your name, and you are so much more.
so much more.

son puts masculinity on a fast. Jericho breaks down. Jordan rushes in. there are enough tears to water Eden.

father embraces.

why is it that
when you
know that you
know,
doubt comes.

study the palms.
it is important to
know the branches that
the stems of their
heritage root from.

kiss the cheek.
begin to send them
like postcards.
they will look back
and read the messages
hidden in the inside
jokes and in-between
the lines.

analyse the eyes.
you can always tell
if they’re to be trusted
with keeping secrets,
memories
or promises.

tend to their wounds.
for outside there are
salted oceans
that will submerge them,
and they will sting,
and sometimes they will
say things they
didn’t mean.

dance with them.
for there is nothing
more securing than
knowing that,
despite the separate
paces of life,
there is a time signature
that will keep you
marching to the same beat.

the evening had a
filter of sepia.
brown houses and
golden streets, the glow
of a soft orange
streetlight bounced
off the bonnet of
our white car. then,
the road became more
private and
i came back
home the same
way i had left it.

how about we
focus on
the blood
that’s painting
our streets red
and not on
the blood that
i can’t help
but shed

there is a
difference.
one of them
is unnatural.