He lay on the floor
Head smashed in with the
Centerpiece that was their
Wedding gift

If only we had cared
Enough to stop him
He was her husband
And he had gone mad on her again

She stood by his body
Teary eyes transfixed on his
Blood as it made its way
To her shaky feet

If only we had not said
He was her husband
She was his wife
For it was theirs to resolve

His fist no longer balled up
Her screams abruptly seize
His belt around her neck no more
Her consciousness crawls back in

If only we had made
It our business, seeing not
Violence as discipline, saving her
Would have saved them both

©Belema .S. Ekine
©belemascribbles

To those who look in the mirror
And see a beautiful person
And those that look in the mirror
But see nothing.

It matters not what cold gray world
We all may live on
Or a world of vibrant green and gold
It is our world.

Soak what gray you most in blood.
Whether it be black blood of hate
                       Blue blood of envy
             Green blood of greed
         Purple blood of lust
Or the crimson of life.

Take this world in your hands
And cradle whats here.
There is someone who understands.
Someone with your taste.

Take the leg broken amd trode upon
And pick yourself up.
Prove that the strongest people
See nothing in the mirror.

Show that the empty mirror
Only shows whats important to you.
Those that see a beautiful person...
Show them that hate
                        Hate is the best motivator

The best for success.

The best for a great life.

For hate is a driving force
Behind the bullet that is you.
Fired feom the mouth of that
Beauty seeking mirror looker.

Take beauty from your surroundings
As well as within yourself.
Only then will you finally see
Something in your mirror.

And what you'll see wont be beauty
But success.

Seen or unseen,
It matters not to the strong.
Because the mirror isn't real.
You made it because they did.

Destroy ot like you did their words.
Use that broken leg to stand tall.
Taller than anyone.

But always remember where you come from.
Stay humble no matter where life leads.

For if you don't
Your reflection will change.
And so will your leg.

“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.

I don’t know how to explain this strange euphoria feeling
Spun with a burn not too dissimilar to cinnamon
As the what ifs fade, I try to cling with finger tips stretched as a last attempt to convince myself that what I felt was real.
I don’t know how to explain the weight lifting off my shoulders,
All the while I am being suffocated
Like rain fall from silver lined clouds the haze of spring penetrates my eyes to remind me
I am still alive

We need to sober up
             from the liquor
                               of lies.

And see that which was regarded,
               was through
               pain tainted glasses
               now broken.

My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a  pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.