Missing

May 25, 2016 Fiction , POETRY / FICTION

By

Otatade Okojie

I missed her, even though it hurt like hell. Pinched at my very core, a wound so deep, a baby could tunnel its head through.

The world was a liar, promising me contentment, peace and ease, that this loss of shadow self would fade. One day it would hurt less, burn little, simply sting, and yet it was like acid on a bullet. Soaped tears clustered in the eyes and I was raw with it.

Today I sit thinking of lost ones, desolate souls, our mental paradise, a self that was designated for freedom in a perfect pod life. And you, I ask, why didn’t you pick me. I am such a pretty thing, all chewed up inside like worn leather, bitter leaf on tongue, poison blade shooting as delicious arrow. Why didn’t you fight in the right way, just that little bit longer. Or else, break my neck, smash a brick over my head so I wouldn’t remember the pain of betrayal.

Dear self, I am lost without you.

There are mannequins who pose on empty streets, flashing postcards of the way we were, there are children like treacle lacing between legs eager to be swallowed.

Yet I remember who we were. Age does such a timely dance, seducing youth to the toils of it’s madness. Look how we grow, how we evolve, how strength is present, and yet you need that voice. The howler in the sleek of the night, tiny fingers knotted at your nipple, suckling at your very breast.

Nobody tells you, how much you need you. When you’re gone, you search for a missing self as detective, magnifying glass, stain on floors, evidence. Where is the evidence for my kidnapped youth, where is my youth to fight a degenerative faith, a hostile world, eager to implant their own beliefs in your soul.

The wind whistles at night, flying like a cloak across your skin, when you were young, it pricked and itched, now you are older, you use thick fingers to circle shopping trolleys beneath your eyes. Deaf to oblivion, arise, arise, youth, we were triumph.

I missed her laugh, the ease of her stride, the dapperness of her swagger. I ache in corners whispering to the dwarfs once more.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Otatade Okojie

Otatade is a writer, journalist, photographer, blogger and CEO of xzmedia international.

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