So now I am a chip, a bit of nothing, I am weak, too weak to discover my own self. If I would live, if I would die? If I am living, if I am dead? I am now a tool, a cutlass that slashes its own user every time he bends to cut, I am a blade with no blunt side.
Few months ago I thought I would be fine, it’s been eight and half months and the funk has just begun. I am now the word nothing, my tummy seem to be the only thing that holds my dress in place, my neck has grown so long, my body so thin. I eat but I cannot taste, the raspberry fruit taste like vinegar now, my mum’s porridge taste like my own puke.
I have run a race long past the finish line and I cannot retrace my steps, what got me here I know but how I got here I have no idea, I always thought the salt I tasted on my lip was the taste of gloss, then I remembered my lips have been bare and chapped for so long, so long that the only crown it wears is the tears that slide down this rough face, this face that pimples have formed ridges on.
I don’t even know the difference between how I laugh and how I cry anymore, I don’t even know if the people I see are dead or alive. If this is a dream, or if it’s all real. One thing I know for real is that the sting in my heart is for real, the weight of these eyes are for real, and this bump on my belly is very real.
He did this, he caressed me like how that old woman down the road makes her wheat, then he ravaged me like the factory workers ate it with no respect for the wheat or how if felt, ate it with no directions, tore it to pieces, that’s how I feel “in pieces”.
Why does it hurt this deep, is it because instead of the strangers they always say it is, it is the friend, the friend whom I took my two legs to his door step, the friend who I wined and dined with, the one who I gave a hug, is it? Answer me, is it? Oh forgive me, are you too classy to reply a young girl who got knocked up real early? Or you are too shy to look at me when behind those very doors you open your legs to him and then you come out and judge me? Now tell me who the mad woman is?
How many layers of pain will I have to scrub? Will I bring this baby to life with so much hurt in my heart with so much hate? He started it, I’m so sure, but right now I am doing this, I am giving pain a chance, I am giving tears a room, I even gave sorrow a bed.
I see the wrong in this, I know I should rid myself of this terror that eats me up, this terror that holds my breath a prisoner from my own lungs. I am a mad, ravaged, confused, and trapped girl. Did I just say girl? Am I girl? What does it take to be a woman I should ask, I should be called a being because no term in the word book can make sense of what I am.
I know that if I bear this baby with this mind, she would see through my eyes that I have given up on this world, she would also believe that the world is as ugly as I see it. I will not let her suffer for coming to this world, she didn’t ask to be conceived, she didn’t beg to be born. I have said so many She’s and Her’s that I’m so sure that it’s a girl, it could only be a girl that can survive in me after all I have been through, sorry we have been through.
I am at a cross road its either I get rid of what’s in my head, or I lead the rest of my life a sadist. My ink will come to an end soon, the last time it wrote I was faceless, now I have too many identities that I do not want. The ink may stop but the brush that’s strokes my canvas, which designs my life has a long way to go, I just hope in the end the art would be beautiful.