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RandiRabid  Oct 2013
Hush Hush
RandiRabid Oct 2013
Darkness replaces the light
Cautiously I slink through the night
Rolling down my sleeves
As my love for you bleeds

“Hush hush,” you say
“For our love must be secret.”
“Hush hush,” I say
“For we cannot waste our time.”

My chest gets tight
My heart takes flight
Lips on lips
This is what they make movies about

“Hush  hush,”  you say
“For we must wait.”
“Hush hush.” I say
“For I’ve caught on to your lies.”

Life comes crashing down
Smile turning to frown
Tears rush down my face
This movie is starting to look like a horror film

“Hush hush,” you say
“For I swear I’m true.”
“Hush hush,” I say
“For it’s time for you to go.”

My knife slides up to your throat
While I show you what’s under my coat
Fear shocks your body
A Cheshire smile on my lips
There are no more hushes
How will your lies save you now?
I’ll give you one last lullaby
Now beg for your life
I’ll show you hurt
I’ll show you pain
Let flow what’s keeping us alive

“Hush hush,” I say
“For our love must be secret.”

The last words said before we collapse
There we lay motionless
Eternal Bliss
Rangzeb Hussain Mar 2010
Who is that rides so late in the forest so dark and wild?
It is but a helpless father and his frightened and lonely child,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The father cradles his lovely son gently in his arms,
He keeps him snug and he keeps him warm and he keeps him calm,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My son, why do you wrap your radiant face in such dread and fear?”
“Mine father, can you not see the Erl-King? He draws ever so near!”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O father! The Erl-King with his weedy crown and thorns of pain is here!”
“My son, it is nothing more than mist and rain on the plain over there.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Sweet lad, O come into my jolly lair and join me, do!
Many pretty and joyful games do I promise to play with you.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

On the forest floor the autumn flowers die in the suffocating cold.
“O you dreaming lad, I have for you garments of red silk dyed in gold.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Mine father, mine father, can you not hear my rising fear?
The Erl-King drips dark promises and breathes in my ear! Help me, father dear!”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Be calm, stay calm, rest my child, stay easy and keep your head low,
In these withered leaves it is only the night winds that creep and roar.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My rosy lipped lad, will you come take a merry stroll and dine with me?
My daughters three shall care for you and many wonders will you see.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My silky daughters of darkness live in yonder castle in shadows deep,
They three will dance and sing and cradle you to the sweetest of sleep.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“Mine father, mine father, O can you not see the red eyes in his fearful face?
The Erl-King’s misty-eyed daughters live in that haunted place!"
The wind blows icy cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“My son, my son, I see the frozen milky moon very clear
And how the ancient weeping willows like castles in the dark do appear.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O how delicious you smell, my tender innocent succulent boy!
Come off that horse and take these wonderfully coloured bright toys.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

“O father, my father, the Erl-King has seized me by the arm!
His long bony claws crawl toward my heart to do to me hungry harm.”
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The father whips and rides fast but his warm cottage is away by a mile,
In his arms he holds the groaning, twisting, shivering child,
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Listen quietly as this tragic tale is told.

The horse halts outside the family home and the father looks with dread
For his son, his only child, he holds in his arms is now dead!
The wind blows sharp and cold,
Hush! Weep quietly as this tragic tale is now all told.
Inspired by the work of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Franz Schubert.
Dev A Jun 2015
Hush child let me tell you a tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

There once was a girl
Who believed in the paranormal
And would turn at the slightest sounds in a whirl.

Hush child and listen to my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

She would always turn on a light
To illuminate what lay in the shadows
When she went about in the night.

Hush child and devour my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

Living alone was she
When the darkness sought her out
And attempted to corrupt her psyche.

Hush child, now listen closely to this tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

As she left the door to her room
She froze where she stood
As she gazed upon her doom.

Hush child, pay attention to my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

There stood a man in a top hat
Across the hall
He seemed ready for combat.

Hush child, do you hear the truth in my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed?

The man stood across from her
Staring and nothing more
But his dark silhouette was a blur.

Hush child, hear now this tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

As they stood there
Watching one another
The girl felt a flair

Hush child, accept my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

The girl took a step back
Closing her door
With a resounding SMACK!

Hush child, for this is my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

The girl was frozen and feeling insecure
Staring at the back of her door
For what she felt was simple and pure.

Hush child, it’s almost over, this tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

The man in the top hat
Across the hall
Radiated evil, pure and simple as that.

Hush child, the end is near of this tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

She stood staring at the door in her room
Never wanting to leave again
For fear of having an early tomb.

Hush child, give ears to this tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

There once was a girl
Who believed in the paranormal
And would turn at the slightest sounds in a whirl.

Hush child, just listen to the tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

She would always turn on a light
To illuminate what lay in the shadows
When she went about in the night.

Hush child, this ends my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed.

She lives in fear of the ghost
For she knows he will return
When she thinks she is safe the most.

Hush child, do you believe my tale
Of a ghost and a girl
When darkness assailed?
Hush momma, please do not cry
Hush momma, please do not die
Please stay from deaths' cold touch
Hush momma, please hush

Hush momma, I am here
Hush momma, do not fear
Into Heaven do not rush
Hush momma, please hush

Hush momma, you are cold
Hush momma, you I hold
My heart is going to crush
Hush momma, please hush
Grace  Jun 2018
the hush hushed
Grace Jun 2018
I cant tell you how much the hush hush hurts,

the gaps,

[the deliberately left blanks]

the silences that make me scared of saying words out loud.


It's the switching of meanings that does it,

all the tip toe awkwardness

the swift, unconscious side steps.


It's the whole long stretch of silence,

the whole deliberate

accidental

hush hush of something I never even knew the name of.  


It's the casual,

forgettable

drops of slights

that I'm still turning

over and over.


It's a hush hush never intended to be malicious but

the quiet twists and tears

and so I can never tell you how much the hush hush hurts

because the silence keeps me hush hushed too.
Working through some things I guess. It's hard to address the hush hush when you know it wasn't malicious, just accidental or a result of a different time. I wonder if they even know about the hush hush? I wonder if they know they kept it? Anyway it's something I need to work through and poetry helps or something

Note: So we talked about the hush hush without words but it's okay, maybe it's how we do things best. And the hush hushed becomes a thing of vibrant, rainbow colours and it's lifting off my shoulders and I think in a glowing kind of way that maybe there's something in this that will be okay. And I wonder how you knew but for now it remains hush hushed because I can’t quite talk about it yet. I wear it instead, I wear my colours instead and maybe that speaks enough for the moment. (Fourteenth of September Two Thousand and Eighteen)
Babygirl Sep 2015
She sits in her room and remembers the empty words...
They swore they would save her, but she wants to soar with the birds.
One cut to make it stop hurting, to make it go away.
Two cuts, because she will pass out before she sees another day.
Three cuts, because two just isn't enough anymore.
Four, because this one will surely take her to Heavens door.

Hush Little Baby don't you cry..
Mommy swore she would never say goodbye..
Hush Little Baby don't say a word...
Daddy swore he would save you from the screams that went unheard.
Hush Little Baby don't you scream...
No one will be there to save you from the nightmares dream.

She wakes in a pool of her own blood, and it makes her cry.
She was hoping this time it would be it; she would finally die.
She cleans up the mess, because no one can know.
She smiles a smile with an angels glow.
They all think she is happy and fine.
Soon, she will be lost to it all, soon she will be Mine.

Hush Little Baby don't you close your eyes.
They were supposed to save you, now she says goodbyes.
Hush Little Baby don't you fall...
Death is coming and he will help you through it all.
Hush Little Baby don't you die...
Depression will take you and sing a lullaby.

It's to much, and there is nothing she can do...
She tried it all, but no one can here the screams...not even you.
She lays in bed and writes her goodbye.
She doesn't address it to anyone because no one will cry.
Once it's written she sets it down, she knows what to do..
She takes the pills and slices her wrists, she says goodbye to the ghost of you.

Hush Little Baby don't be sad.
They won't even notice, not your mom or dad.
Hush Little Baby don't fear the other side.
Your baby sister will be the one to find you had died.
Hush Little Baby don't feel bad...
You made your choice, it's to late to be sad.
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
anyone who has been in this position
will tell you:
              when you start reading philosophy
books, well...
   there's not much a psychologist
or a psychiatrist can really help you with...
after all: psychology is pop philosophy,
it's an off-shoot of philosophy,
       and that's not some pompous
affirmation of the subject matter,
            it just is, what it is,
                 blatantly it's rather problematic,
if the h'american education system
introduces philosophy in high school...
you should really discover philosophy
aged 21, at least 21...
        hell, alcohol and *** can come before,
as they naturally will...
but i have a sharp aversion with regards
to teaching teenagers any philosophy...
again: what an over-used term:
   "philosophy" - esp. in the climate
of self-help gurus...
                  philosophy is not a subject
that fixes ****... it complicates life...
   and when life is already complicated:
the only aid is to at least
fortify your mind...
                     rarely a life uncomplicated
with an uncomplicated mind...
but such life exists...
  nonetheless...
                  these days philosophy lies
in the shallow grave of psychology...
                 psychology just seems to be
a pursuit, a cascade of schematism,
    oh yes... schematism...
           schematism is the new scholasticism,
on note, that medieval system becomes
more and more appealing...
   without jumping to any conclusions...
hard to pick up random facts,
unshakeable facts for a befitting narrative...
i mean, the usual suspects are there:
the big bang, darwinism, world war II...
but there is no "real" narrative
      for so many of us...
                        unless from mouth to mouth...
but from a mouth you've never heard
speak?
          a distant voice that has no power
to resonate?
                 in my hands i hold two books...
history of germany 1918 - 2000...
           modern history is so dry...
                      people in this book are so
unimportant upon a retrospective reading,
even ****** is akin to a dwarf...
    since the "concern" is germany...
             history books, a great genre,
when dealing with individuals,
    esp. medieval individuals...
       for what is history?
                         an incremental seduction
by minor events toward a memorable
crux, a single: outstanding culmination
zenith / sigma...
                           the summa summarum
of here and now.
   will it be considered "****" to have
a fetish for the german tongue,
after all, west saxon, english,
   is the offspring of altmanndeutsche
(would i have a fetish for russian?
   i don't think so, i'm too entwined in english)
alles in allem auf hier und jetzt...
    again: heidegger's dasein seems to be
forward looking: rather than inward looking...

so, in my other hand?
     jim bradbury's biography of...
    philip augustus: king of france 1180 - 1223...
a mighty book... but more a mighty person
invoked...

what is to justify man's desire for happiness,
for the content life?
                        the more i ever felt the relief
of a contentment with life:
         the more it passed me by,
                     i was more or less asleep than
awake.

         eh! the current canvas of history via
the mainstream application bores me,
jumping between the two genesēs of
the big bang (yeah, in a vacuum, good luck
playing a violin up there,
with someone reciprocrating what
eventually looks like a mime) and darwinism...
it's congesting: custard for a brain -
      vanillesoße zum ein(e) gehirn -
out of the blue, a question -
    is it the same in german as in english,
regarding the indefinite article?
        i.e. a tree
                        an amber stone
         ein gehrin
                 or eine gehrin,
         the grapheme question...
  are two vowels allowed to mingle again?
   i.e.               æmblem
                       well... doesn't that become
a directive? an indirect article composed
of itself and a noun becomes definitive,
a definite article? as far as i'm aware...
there are no consonant graphemes...
sure... you can have SZ (SH) reduced to
a caron S (hiding the Z like a hebrew
might hide a vowel) i.e. Š...
                                       just a thought...

funny that... after my first psychotic
trip (mild drug, marijuana, so hardly
a point breaker) - i once studied chemistry,
i was semi-good at mathematics...
but then... my language skills / interests
exploded...
                     it became and has remained
a fixation...

  mind you, if you're still in high school
and are taking up majors,
and are thinking about furthering your
language skills?
               flat chance of you achieving
your satisfaction taking pure english lessons...
i took history...
     and history? well, you're still taking
an english major, but a major in a science,
at least all the history books have
a gratifying narrative...
              but in terms of history per se?
etymology...
                 how words arrived,
and how words morphed...
         guilty! i like to confine myself
to the sort of history i find to be bound
to a comprehesive retreat...
           big **** darwinism and all its
regressive ontological tactic of explanation
is one thing, the big bang is another thing
also...
               but at least i can return
to the history span that begins,
   and ends... with phonetic encoding...
the birth of thought,
when you could begin to shut up
without an empty bath's worth of the head,
but all the plastic ducks and foam
in your head, and itchy finger tips...
greedy buggers who could only be
satisfied with an alphabet,
and puzzles of words, and later sentences...

just give me a bottle of whiskey,
a decent album (akin to wooden shjips V)
and i'll sing like the kind of sparrow
you only hear at night...

and all this current ******* of "m'ah opinion",
my opinion this, my opinion that,
that "grand" constructions,
             surely it would be easier for
the phallus to find a ******
     than a tongue to find the dialectical
insertion point of the whole "my" opinion...
well, not really, every time i think of the act,
i always found the insert point
to be below my original intent,
what with women having
   to seemingly parallel coccyx bones
either side of their pelvis...
            the frontal deceptive coccyx
bone just above the v'ah-g-g...
            eh... amateur... even with prostitutes...
but this whole: it's my opinion!
it's my opinion! well, you'd be hopeful
to entertain a dialectic also,
apparently that's not the case:
give, "my" opinion insinuates:
     it cannot be debated, it cannot be changed,
no other person can entertain it,
what a primitive defence mechanism...
even poisonous frogs have
a better defence mechanism...
            again: i don't really own anything
in this world,
   i'm only guarding it, but i don't own it:
the everyday story of every single
antique...

  again, back into a "critique" of history
as a literary genre,
               i own a few first editions,
     the biography of philip augustus is one
of them: 1998 edition, first,
which is beside the point...
            i'm sure that life in medieval europe
was harsh...
but at least you had peacock characters,
rather than this, moden, bland c.c.t.v.
reality t.v. personalities...
              oh of course modern life
has all the perks... standing in line...
               but there's no way of replacing
an adventurous ambition with
complacency and comfort...
plus, they had such great names!
        peaches geldof (rest in peace)...
peaches?!
               compared to bertran de bron?
joscius?           conrad of montferrat?
  saladin & the ayyubid empire?
       hell, the smaller the tribe,
  the better the name...
             the angevins, the capetians,
the merovingians!
         now?        eh: zee fwench.
boo'ring...
   even a bull wouldn't charge at
the colour red even if you wanted him
to.

again: these days you can rely on
people who know the facts...
   and factoid checking is all we ever do
these days, being always "right"...
facts overshadow the story we're about
to tell...
            a bull charges at head:
because he / it sees a honing pointer
of: there's something "missing"...
              daltonism "vs." protanopia...
i once had a high school fwend who
laughed... at this catholic high school...
purple blazers were yellow to him...
who needs l.s.d. then?

       once again... a medieval history book?
as a genre?
                so many stories...
but there is no a priori factual check
impetus...
     the facts are a posteriori...
  what is a priori? the story...
                          and why wouldn't
philip augustus be overlooked?
given the fwench rhe-vou-lú-çion?!
****! T gone missing! T gone missing!
the H is a surd, but it shoved itself
past the cue, elbows high!      
          
  the battle of bouvines (bou-veens,
or: bou-v'ah)
                     depends...
                how selective we "must" become
to make choices from such
an impossible spectrum of events...
after all... muslims readily cite and remember
the crusades, even to this day...
hush hush the sacking of baghdad by
the mongol horde...
for the library was burned and
the skulls were stacked!
hush hush about the first defeat
of the mongols by the mamluk slaves
in egypt... who weren't mohammedians
to an extent of being slaves...

you almost stand there,
bewildered... what about the jihad
into mongolia...
well at least go and help your brothers
out in Xinjiang and Henan!
why isn't the botherhood attempting
to jidad their way:
jihad with the chinese communist party?

hush hush... let's adore the palm trees
lining avenue des Champs-Élysées...
let's sit back... procreate for a while...
eat the good food...
let's sit back and procreate...
the 2010s was a good year for fear and
tarantulla bite-numbing escapades...
let's just sit and procreate...
let's become lazy... chant with the Tehran
zindiqs ****'ites! deaf to h'america
and we've conquered London and...
just sit back... because... we've earned it...
we have satisfied ourselves with
the blood of the ***** (kuffar)...
allah the almighty will bless us in
our respite concerning those Persian
zindiqs! the people of the desert with but
one book have conquered!

true indeed: where a jihad would be
even deemed "justifiable"...
in cha-cha-china... where muslims are
being persecuted... London! London!
we need more in London...
well this whole: muslim brotherhood
and the whole muhammad ali thing...
malcolm x... only worked...
but this is the chinese doing it to their own...
no need to intervene and bring
the good people back into the ummah...
    
  hush hush, hush hush, hush hush...
cherry picking history, are we?
    well...            let's cherry pick together!
look at this garden of time:
plenty of picks, plenty of beginnings!
at this point: a certain amount of history
can become fiction,
and not in a bad way...
it can become the basis for "studying"
archetypes...
             funny how time treats those
who experience it...
    it mutates them...
                   and to no purpose
of appealing to the general public,
  so much can and has happened in my life:
and yet...
         nothing is worth the curator's knowledge
of commentary,
  the status of laureate:
   i'd sooner be found, bound to the pleasure
of shooting dead ducks floating in
the water with a slig-shot...
       than, whatever, the aspiration for
the post, deserves;
  g.c.s.e. allowed poetics can deal with that...

again:
   why is poetry so overtly scrutinißed?
no one makes so many notes regarding prose...
but then poetry is being analyßed?
out come the scalpels, the weights,
the whole forensic scrutiny!
        10 words are expanded into
a 10,000 word essay...
      gay science my ***...
                   it's the most over-scrutinißed
form of language,
no wonder people are intimidated
by it... who would want to write in a medium
that has so much scrutiny hovering
above it: and no, it's not a ******* halo
or a laurel wreath!

           there's only so much meaning
that can be derived from a sentence,
before the pun, dries out,
  before the metaphor, dries out,
before all these bogus over-stressed
ars poetica identifiers via "technique" become
exhausted, and what you're left with,
is the ancient art of narrative...
  
  yeah, sure sure, i too wish my narrative
"skills" were better...
             i'm streuengehirn...
              if i really wanted to write
a ******* mathematical rubric of:
1 x 1 = 1
1 x 2 = 2
1 x 3 = 3...            i'd be currently writing
a YA vampire romance trilogy...
do i look like someone who's going to write
a YA vampire romance trilogy?!

           eh... back when you could respect
a homosexual akin to william burroughs...
back to a tomorrow's worth of respecting
a homosexual akin to douglas murray...
   or that gay sitcom starring
           ian mckellen & derek jacobi...

                       two old **** talking:
        eloquence and ettiquete...
                     now, that was fun...
i too wish some perv shoved his ****
through my ***, picked up my hands...
and transformed by idle tongue
to present a, stage performance worthy
of an encore...
                             alas...
   given the current climate...
          i'm stuck with the sort of gays
the old gays would probably be ashamed of...
so much for the adventure and
          the... courage... of feeding a pleasure
of "something" going in, rather than coming out...

irritable bowel syndrome from time to time,
i honestly enjoy taking a **** too much,
so much so that i find the male
****** to be overrated.

post- scriptum musing:

favourite past-time?
catching a mosquito by the *****
while wearing boxing gloves.  
  
don't know how drunk doesn't
translate into shy...
or how the former translates
into an antidote for the latter
(&
   also
     bound to italics) somehow...

a fool's idle wondering
equating itself with
all the world
   and the men invested in it:
ambitions, adventures,

            so... who's going to follow
suite in gratifying this "grand"
errand?
             surrounded by unshakeable
cliffs of "knowledge" of facts...
what story is to be told,
without a fear of plagiarißm?
since there is a fear:
it implies... the story is not worth
passing on,
not unless the newly-born arrive
and are born from a foreign
body, not alligned
   to the organic allignement
of continuity...
  pass what may pass...
               once again: arriving
at the jargon babylon deposit of
the fuel for a will to live,
                             as shared universally.
Andrew Castillo Nov 2010
Diving deeper into you
Feeling the roughness of your skin
Pressed against mine
A look, a touch
Sends me to my knees
Crashing against the cold dirt
Sinking beneath the surface
Slipping into darkness
Burning with passion
Fleeing from advances of creatures I know not of
Whispering hush hush
To silence the sounds of my heart
For love is a dangerous game
Be still my blackened heart
For you do not need to change
Just place barbed wire across the fences you built
Hush hush I say to my brain
Because logic sees the reasoning
Yet I do not need to listen to the voices in my head
As I can plunge farther into myself
Causing no more pain
No love to give or receive
Hush hush I say to myself
As I let go of all reason to stay afloat
Scip Feb 2013
Who is this?
A writer speaking to another -
to whom it may concern.

What sadness do you attend to?
That peculiar grief encircling you.

You hear whispers that blight your grounds,
Clinging unto you with very much different sounds,

So insane - so sane - so insane,
One after the other, the stretching claws of
this morbid bane,

Uncalled for, but in laden laid,
Hush little one - there is for no reason
to be afraid.

"But why is the fear so real?"
You may ask and knock the door,
"Why are things so perplexed?"
You may wonder
while lying on the cold and ***** floor,

But then a question better -
'Why - are we even here?'
Why are our feet standing on this ground?
Whilst all stories are getting sadder,
What materialism blinds us from -
is what our ears had grown deaf and
had forgotten of one much important sound,

Hush little one - close and open your eyes again,
Are not the skies so vastly laid and beauteous?
Now bring your attention from where all things had began,
Are not the trees that bear fruits, growing and in surplus?

Hush little one - for we are all small and insignificant,
Those who are arrogant will fall,
And yes - we are mankind, the one chosen,
bestowed proprietary as a vicegerent ,
But the mountains laid are ever more
sturdy and tall,

Hush little one - all of us were born to die!
And do not mistake my hush as to undermine,
Hush! Silence the world and close your eyes!
And let your heart and mind open
to find the shine!

The light that bursts and could cure the heart,
A light like no other -
that no darkness could tear apart.

Hush - and clear your mind,
Hush - for you have forgotten of The Lord Benign.
Sonja G N Woods  Feb 2018
Lullaby
Sonja G N Woods Feb 2018
Hush hush
sleep my little boy
Hush hush
you are my great joy
Hush hush
I guard all your dreams

Hush hush
smile my little boy
Hush hush
I bring you a toy
Hush hush
I guard all your dreams
Things wait
To get better.
No telling when
How
But things are always ******
The delays
Non proper days.
Make sence of this.
I cant
Or start talking.
Which to that
I'll simply tell you to
hush
Shhhhhhh
Do not leave this behind.
This is the origins of
A new begining.
Hush
They'll tell you.
Let it happen.
Swirling blackness blurred everywhere.
Touched
In all the wrong ways.
Hush.
Hit every day.
Hush
Taken to a strange place
Hush
Murdered
Hush.
All cut up
Hush
When does the madness end?
Is it okay to ask
Or is my answer
**hush
Famous Isaacs Jun 2014
I’m a child and not a bride, but
Last month you made me marry you.
You know it wasn’t love that made me say yes
But the fear of what shape my death could take
If I were to turn you down. Of course
I had no voice. I could only muse to myself
In the dark closet and imagine myself
A mother at thirteen: would it be awesome?
Would it be dreadful? Would it…? I died of anxiety.

Last month you made me marry you.
I had no time to discover me for myself:
Who I was, what I was, what I wanted to be;
I had no time to think before I had to say yes.
But it pains my bones to the marrow.
I am an unripe fruit for the eating.
I am a piece for the show-glass.

Last month you made me marry you.
I spent nights upon nights weeping over how you’ve
Broken me; how you’ve set my life ablaze
Like a forest in a wildfire;
And now the once-upon-a-time sweet sounding music
Of my soul is burnt into silence.
I have forgotten the dialect of my soul.
I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush. I hush.
You have beaten silence into me,
And now I have to prepare to moan and wail
Beneath your weight, while I watch you helplessly
As you bite into my innocence,
As you suckle the un-ripeness out of me,
As you dig into my childhood and pleasure yourself
In the childhood screams you hear from me.
But it isn’t the fun that makes me scream.
It is the bitter pain of knowing, of remembering
That my life ended at thirteen:

Broken like a fallen calabash
In the hands of a fifty-five year old man.
2013, in Nigeria, a 55-year old Senator married a 13-year old girl. The #ChildNotBride campaign against the senator's decision was born.

— The End —