Work in Progress- Extract from 'Up from the Melon Road'

I've been writing this semi -autobiographical book for years now. Still looking for a publisher. Also been very ill, computer's gone kaput now and I'm in the library. I'd love to hear what you've got to say on this and others to come. God bless




Sunlight streaked in; I’m lying flat on my back, just as I had for the past two weeks. I breathe in deep and feel my shoulder blades contract with the unfamiliar action; I’ve been breathing lightly for so long, it felt unnatural to breathe in deeply, I feel twinges, but it feels so good. I do it again and breathe in real deep.


I rise up slowly throwing the covers from my body gently and I put my feet down on the lukewarm rug, I feel a bit dizzy but its okay. Unbuttoning my pajamas shirt slowly, and standing up I know it’s time. I have avoided facing this demon for so long but now I was ready to embrace it because I knew it was good for me. At last, I see the way to be free. I had prepared for it the night before, getting the long mirror reinstalled into my bedroom, so moving for the first time in two weeks, I was ready to see.

I walk to the mirror, looking into my own eyes, I dread to look elsewhere but I’m also excited. Slowly I raise up my hands and place them gently on them, barely touching and then I palm them; they are so soft and feel strange, so reduced, I circle them, then move up to the nibs and slowly pass my thumbs over them, I think my back groans.

I think I feel pain, but I’m not sure. I feel light all over for the first time, then I look down at them in the mirror and away and at them in the mirror and away and at them for real, they are perfect, round and they are small. The water surges behind my eyes but I blink them away fast, but the waves of a thirty-year pain are hard to dam (ignore). Slowly, then rapidly my tears fall on my naked body and I’m standing in front of a mirror ad I’m raining tears, but I’m not sad, I am very happy, very exhilarated, very, very light.

Facing Truth

I had written previously about coming back with a story or two. Little did I know that my life was to take a novel punch or two. For the past two and a half years, I have been fighting an aggravated condition. I know I have had it all my life but it had never gotten as serious as it then became. It has plagued me for a long time, I had been called lazy because of it, back at secondary school, I had been called a malingerer when I had genuinely felt unwell but in all my years, I had not felt it as bad as I do now.

For two and a half years, I wondered what was wrong with me, some people said it was in my head, some said it was an attack from a demonic person of my acquaintance, some people said I should confess my deep hidden sin and I would find forgiveness and relief. I went for tests (cancer gene, HIV, sexual diseases, blood genotype etc) nothing! The only slightly helpful thing was that I had the alpha thalessimia trait which explained some of my body pain and fatigue, however, it was not enough to explain the sometimes bone wrenching, excruciating pain, extreme fatigue and agonising tremours I suffered constantly.

Then late last year rolling into early this year, the term fibromaylgia was bandied about then confirmed with severe spinal pain was diagnosed and for about ten minutes, I wept like a baby in my consultant's room. I was made aware of the fact that it had no cure and I most likely would carry it for life but this did not dampen my relief that finally, I knew what was ailing me.

Shortly after that I had the threat of cancer and potential surgery but with faith in God, much prayers with friends and some trepidation. I got the all clear on my biopsy and no surgery is needed.

In all that time, I have met incredible people who have gone the extra mile to make my life more comfortable. I have almost loved and lost men who couldn't cope with the fact that I might not be the active, agile woman they want. I have had my faith and trust in God tested and hopefully, I have succeeded. Best of all, I have come to know the real me, who I am, my strenght and my weaknesses. I have found a new love and respect for myself and the whole experience has made me more sympathetic, less impatient and more understanding of the world around me and for that knowledge, I wouldn't give nothing back.

Don't misunderstand me, these conditions aren't things I would wish on an enemy and I wouldn't do them again given the chance. I like being healthy,though I mostly can't remember what that was like, however, the lessons I have gained are invaluable. Family is good and important. Love that doesn't run at the sight of pain is real and best of all, I do not believe the report of the doctors, but rather the report of the Lord which says I can and will be healed.

So as I bask in the mercy of my Saviour and Redeemer, and enjoy the love and closeness of my family and open my heart to the possibilities of love ( I never believed that I would enjoy the intimacy of a romance and the stabily of love) I don't have a partner yet but I now know that it is possible. I wish to let you dear reader know, there is truly sunshine after the rain, no matter how long it falls and there is hope, no matter how dark life gets. I know because itt is my truth. God bless.

FOOLISH THINGS

Its been a while that I had come to the blog. My computer getting damaged and ill health didn't help but I'm grateful to God that I've got progress now. I have been writing , stories mainly, ramblings from a fevered brain addled with opiate based medication, so many exciting things there.

This is an old poem but one of my favourites, so I want to share it as I slowly return to the land from which I grew fat. I have found one certain truth in these past months. I write because I must; its life, air and living to me. Even when I laid down with painful bones, gnarled fingers and fevered breath. I still picked up my phone and recorded thoughts and stories and songs. It would not leave me, not give me a moment's rest until every last word had been stored for transcribing.

So as I start anew, enjoy the strains of my longing heart years ago and maybe your heart is in this place, don't despair, believe it or not, this too shall pass. You will live.

God bless x



FOOLISH THINGS

You came and conquered me

You conquered me

A strand of hair on my pillow

A note paper with scribbles

A fading picture of a romantic place

These foolish things


A half-empty cologne bottle

A broken pencil

A worn out T-shirt

A chipped glass

These foolish things


A memory, a smile

A song, a laugh

You do these things to me

These foolish things

So foolish things

Remind me of you

And conquer me

Walls

I'm still under the rage of refusal. The refusal of rape, child abuse, violence , sexual brutality. So I'm still writing.


Walls


Many envy people who live in thick walled houses

I don’t.

My thin walls let in every bump, thump and rumbadum dump but

Its nosy vocals reassure me that if I can hear them,

So can they hear me.



I used to live in a thick walled house once

It was safe, private and filled with familiar voices.

Those times were different, where seeking arms

did not meet a surprised bed or

hard floor but a beating heart.



I remember, however, a little girl who lived behind thick walls.

Evil waited for her at the bottom steps under the very last

deck of floors and took her into the hollow,

covered her frightened lips and plunged.



Every time, her lips got less frightened and

opened in gaped resignation.

Evil took again and again; walls did not protect her.

They were too thick to let through the sound of her shocked heart.



Soon evil got bold and moved from under

the darkened steps and into her walls,

underneath a sister’s nose, who, instead of offering hopes of protection,

blackmailed for adolescent wiles.



So thin walls may be flimsy, exposing, nosy and

noisy, still, they suit me fine.

For in this noise and within these walls.

I find safety in every bump, thump and rambambam gump.

For if I can hear them, then surely, happily securely,

they can hear me.

What This Woman Wants

This is a follow on poem to the previous poem. Wishing you light, hope and love. God bless x

First published 7th of September 2010


Safety



All I want is to be

a woman.

Sweet mud sucking between my toes

Grass, itchy fresh tickling my back

Strong touch holding yet

Letting me free-fall as my head

Tilts back, eyes squint in the sun

My eyes watching God.


I want to be a woman

Subtle sand seeking secret crevices

Wind tugging my hair, teasing

Asking me to join in play as

Rain peppers my skin with wet kisses

Showing me how love can

Come down as I lift my lips, my eyes

Firmly opened watching God.


All I really want is to be

A woman.

Jumping in the river as currents

Envelope me with wet desires

Tendrils, trail around me, caress

Softly , set me on fire

Call me to the deep, asking

To let go, be free as the waters

Bathe me , my eyes gaze to the

Sky tenderly watching God.


I just want to be a woman

Sunrays warming my back as

Sweet salty trails run from

My back down my legs. Intimate

Marking its way down territory

Wind blowing coolness as salt dries

On my upper lip. I lick, tasting

Love, life. A bird flies with cry,

Smiling , I gaze up, the clouds

Sanguine in the sky and there’s

God’s eyes watching me.

Old time Nwantintin

Recently a friend of mine  http://www.facebook.com/nuggetzman on Facebook wrote this statement [Churches in val mood. Red hearts and roses hanging on church walls. Churches are hosting red carpets and comedy shows today and 2mrw. Naija xtian no fit come last. But is romantic love anytin African? Ever saw or seen our parents kiss in public?]

And it made me think back to my parents, they met and married in the UK and are staunch members of Deeper Life Church but they loved and showed that love daily. They kissed especially when leaving or returning to the house and just sometimes to show affection. It wasn't done in public, in public they showed their love in a different way, the way they looked after each other, respected each other. I learnt the gentle, quiet, beautiful and sublime love from them and its what I want.

Flowers, chocolates and presents are all good but nothing beats the gentle trust and assurance that you are loved no matter what. That is what every right thinking person wants. That is what I want. and if wanting that means waiting a little bit more, then it would be totally worth it. 
So for everyone who gets that look or question of 'when are you next', I say don't sell out, hold on, with God on your side, you'll overcome.
So thinking of the old time love, I post this poem and say to you all Happy Valentine. God bless.

First published on 3rd December 2010


The Return 



I will meet you at the path

with the best of nkpokiti dances

Ululating your ancestral names, so your father’s line

can hear and be proud

I’m aiming for the back-hairs at your neck,

hoping they encourage your head to swell


Then I’ll lead you up the cement steps,

into the house, strip off your dust weary clothes,

chanting the songs you suckled to, remind you of your mother’s smell

Lead you in to the bathroom where

a pail of warm water awaits, and as you pour,

I’ll wash your back with black soap and tickles


Then clean and fresh, you sit before pounded yam

with fresh fish soup and as you eat, I’ll recall songs

that will transport you to the fields of nostalgia

When you finish, I’ll await your burp of satisfaction,

show you the raffia chair prepared for your resting


And as you lie content, I’ll lay my head on

your lap and rub your stomach

The trees and winds joining the gentle chant

of my heart-mine, mine, mine.

When Love Comes

I'm using the term 'Love' here very loosly since I'm not a person who does PDA (Public Displays of Affection) well. I always want to slap people who just do all that kissy kissy stuff in public! Call me a prude, but I believe that love-(I think my last post settled what we call love, or rather what I call love) should be a private, beautiful thing, it should be graceful, gentle and tender, something people consider a priviledge to see. However, what do I know? Maybe I'll be one of those irritating women who coil around their men at every given opportunity, trying to stamp their lip imprint on him so that everyone would know, he belongs to her! I shudder at the thought.

First published on Thursday, 27 November 2008


If- More Sham Lyrics



I'm still going on the theory of what love might feel like, so here's another poem.

PS I'm working on the hate theory too, just must get the emotion right. Cheers!



Breathe


I am tucking my nose

into that indent your head

made on my pillow,

catching every scent of your skin.



Its wood, grass, wind, rain

mud. Fresh, clean, spicy.

How I adore your smell!



I inhale deep, wrap myself in

the towel you left, lie

half asleep, wondering if you

have your face tucked in

something of mine,

remembering.

Rattle my Window-Part 2

I have been threatened with broken limbs if I don't put up the rest of the story (so LM, I hope I can come into London without fear now?) only to find that its not the first time, I had been in this particular situation, So here it is, first published in December 21st 2007, it is 'Rattle My Window'


As Joko got in, she saw two of her husband’s colleagues and his immediate boss. Another neighbour was there. Bewildered, she frowned. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘Madam,’ it was Rele’s boss who spoke. ‘I’m so sorry…your husband was sent to Benin to do some things for the office…but…he had an accident.’
Immediately, her neighbours moved closer to her and stood near. She looked at Rele’s boss. ‘Accident? How? Where’s my husband? How is he?’ Joko couldn’t understand.
Her neighbour was already crying and Rele’s colleagues were looking at the floor. When his boss couldn’t hold her gaze, she understood. ‘No!’ Joko screamed and all went black.

Seven days later, Joko woke up. She was thankful for the blessedness of oblivion, but she had to wake up to life. She woke up on her wedding anniversary and cried bitterly through the day, she refused to see anyone and when she remembered Rele’s promise to come back, she clung to it and urged him to do so. When she became hysterical about it, the doctor had to come in to sedate her to sleep.

A month later, Rele was buried and Joko went home. She made it a ritual every night to call on him to rattle the window, but nothing happened and she would cry in frustration. Her belief in his ability got stronger when Iya Agba came to visit. Wizened with age and sorrow, she pronounced that she could feel her son was still in his house. Instead of Joko being frightened, she became strengthened and she continued to stay in the house. At first her friends came to stay with her but she craved for solitude and mercifully she was soon left alone. At times, in her quiet moments, she would call for Rele and times when she needed the arms of her man; she almost became crazed with vexation at his absence. She hated him and loved him, she begged him to return and cursed him for leaving her.

Then as the months flew by, she lost faith in him. She started to smile again and she stopped calling for him in her dreams. She stopped laying the table for two and she stopped talking aloud to him. Later, she stopped wearing black clothes and started wearing bright colours. At first she was afraid and yet hopeful that he would take offence and rattle the window, but when nothing happened for a whole day, she threw her widow’s weeds away. She started to use make-up and she started to find her banker attractive especially after the way he helped her manage her money after Rele’s death. She went out with him several times and enjoyed the experience. He was very different from Rele but he was a nice person and the dating excited her.

Four and a half years later after Rele died, Dipo the banker, proposed to her, Joko went into her room and called for Denrele again to give him, his final chance to register his presence. She waited for a full minute and then turned around and left. ‘Well, it was stupid of me to have believed he would come back, who knows what goes on after a person dies.’ She thought to herself as she walked out of the house and went to Dipo’s house to tell him she had accepted his proposal. She had already put the house up for sale and moved her things out, ready for a new life.

As she drove away from the house, Rele became visible. He looked out of the window and rattled it in frustration. How was he to know that it took a ghost so long to perfect the art of appearing and tangible action? He had been there through Joko’s tears and pains and he had stood by her as she had voiced her frustrations. He had flinched when she abused him and he had wanted to explain to her that he would never have left her if he had the power.

He had been delighted to see her smile again and wear bright colours. He had loved her anew as she applied make-up and sang little songs. He had felt a little jealous as she came back looking alive after having dinner with that banker guy, but he had been truly happy for her that she was living life again. He only wished he could tell her how much he had loved her and wished her the best. How he had tried to comfort her with his presence. ‘Well Rele, she’s happy now, its time to go.’ a figure appeared beside him and smiled. With a nod and a little sigh, Rele held the figure’s outstretched hand and they disappeared. At last both he and Joko were finally free.

Love Attack!

First published on the 14th of April 2007

I have been attacked! Friends who have visited this site, have attacked me asking how I could shamelessly pander to such hedonistic, libertine ideas! But I asked a question to my defence and no one so far has been able to answer me staright in the eye, so I plead here.


I plead poetic liberty to say what would normally not be said,
so that the tongue might be free.
I plead poetic truth, the lie can only travel so far 
till the truth catches up with it.
I plead poetic diahoerra, that which I see,
I must speak,
I cannot hide away from this foible of mine,
it is ingrained, niggling till I give in, shuddering at its feet.
I plead poetic egoism,
I believe I can see beyond the man, read his mind,
form his thoughts before he finished thinking them,
his eyes vast windows to his dirty soul, and
I look within and dredge,
Stirring up the muck and yet cleansing.
So I plead,
I plead, I am a writer, it is what I know,
what I do best , what makes me really be

Blessings of every kind

Posted first on the 14th of April 2007

I have been very fortunate to be invited to some really good gigs for a poet and a female black Nigerian poet at that and some people may knock it but I thank God for every blessing that has come my way. In my writing circuit, hearing people abuse God is rife and I never stop being shocked by the whole thing, I mean how do puny humans get off insulting a deity?

They have no control whether they live or die and yet it comes so easy to them to 'rebel' against a higher power. well enough about them, just wanted to put in new stuff and next entries will be some story extracts. Enjoy!

BIRDSONG

This is for the vulture
Flying low scavenging for food
Brother, don't blame him
Another's death is his feast
For without he would die.

This is for the eagle
Flying strong hunting prey
It is not his fault
Another's carelessness is his triumph
There is no mercy for the foolish

This is for the hawk
Flying in search for that gaol
Be not annoyed, my brother
Your straying chickens fill his beak
Insufficient red dye is no good excuse

This is for all birds strong and wild
Yours is the wicked beak, the sharp talon
Strong birds, strong lives
Reflecting the ways of men
May I never be found weak.


SANITY

I wish you could read my mind
Find disturbances, grievances, fears
My smile is larger than my joy
My joy is small, if any at all
My mind is a book, lost, dusty, rude

I wish you could live my dream
Discover horror, pain, grief
My laughter is louder than my pleasure
My pleasure is small, if any at all
My dream is a nightmare, lonely, scary, unknown

I wish you for a little while
My mind, my dream
Understand this, you are not my enemy
I just need you to know and
Be aware of me.

Remembering the Day of Rain 2

Still in deep thought about Dike. I think the beautyful ones are not yet born as Kwei Armah said but the exceptional one die too soon.

On the 13th of January 2007, the poetry world lost someone who had always been a forceful gale in the poetry performance climate. With a style that hit you full in the face leaving you no choice but to suck in deep and breathe, his performances always left people breathless. One with a cheeky smile, he drew you in into his words, his facial expressions, his tone and then he swept you off your feet like a hurricane and spat you out again but you never felt broken or damaged, his torrents cleansed.

He was always quiet but you knew he was there, the second time I met him, I turned to Anwen Lewis (another poet) and said 'he is a beautiful man' graciously, he smiled but didn't say a word, mortified that he might have misunderstood me, Anwen reassured me with 'he likes it when people say he's beautiful' I never had much time to know him, despite Bolton being 25 minutes away by car, for the train bound like myself, it could sometimes take forever to get to Manchester, so I skipped out on a lot of events, but the few times I made it and met him and watched him perform, it was always a delight, my favourite of his was 'Tired'.

Now I wonder if in so many ways that we now see he was trying to tell us something. It takes a very strong willed man to take the decision that he took and that holds my respect. The last time I saw him was at the Tongue and Hammer slam in Bolton, he walked past and I said hello and a poet standing next to me (I forget who now) said 'Dike looks a bit thin don't you think'? And I replied ' But he's never been a fat person, has he'? Little did we know that, that which sucked his life force was kept hidden from our eyes by his determination to go on, his poetic zeal and his struggle to go under his own terms.

Dike died alone. That is I think what hurts me on the inside because I don't think anyone should died on their own. My mind has raked over the different possibilities that could either have saved him or made his passage easier, especially in the Nigerian context where people are always around you, it is alien to die on your own, but he did and I mourn that. However, I also celebrate him, for he was a good poet and man. Everyone have their faults, Dike did have his but he was a good man. He saw my performance for the first time, gave me his card, and told me I would go far, he and Segun Lee French introduced me to the Makeda group and I had a brilliant time.

At the Identity workshop, he had nothing but encouragement for me and even when he disagreed with some points I had made, he wasn't arrogant about it. Several times, I had to call him to say 'Sorry I can't make it' and he would say 'Next time then' Only there would be no next time now for him, for me to see him. With Dike, it is over, the end.

This year, he sent an email round to the Identity group saying something like 'Glad we all made it into the new year'. That was his feeling and something I will hold on to. Dike was glad for everyday, despite his pain, he was glad. So I am glad for every time, I met him, spoke to him, and saw him. I believe his memory will live on, through the things he had done, the people he had mentored, his very essence.

And we would remember this remarkable man who graced our lives and we would tell upcoming poets, performance artistes and writers about this man who's act was electric and we would make them wish they had known him. We will tell them about this man and he was called Dike Omeje.

Remembering the Day of Rain

I wrote this piece on the 26th of January 2007 after I heard the news. I was so shocked and I felt slapped. It was the first time, something that awful had happened to me since I came into the UK (more was to come) and I couldn't just wrap my head around it.

Dike, I remember you today lifting my head to the heavens and blowing you a kiss. Adieu you beautiful beautiful inside and out man.

Today, we bury Dike Omeje, returning his body back to earth. Today, we let go of the last physical reminder and take what we know only in doses of recorded words, books and pictures and of course our memories. Today, we resign ourselves , it is the TRUTH, we give him back to earth and we turn away and go back to the business of living, surviving, being.

I cried this morning, not for Dike, not for myself but for his mother. No woman should have to bury a child and I cried for her pain, her loss, her grief, I cried for the sharp sting of bereavement she will carry for the rest of her days, and I prayed for her, that she would survive each day having less pain than the day before. It won't go away, I know but may it be bearable.

Today is the day we give back someone who was sent for a while to add that sparkle and pizzazz to our lives, we give back the one God sent to let us know what it is like to know a man sprinkled with angel dust. Today.

I wrote this for Dike and read some of it out at his wake and I want to say thank you to the many people who, even though, they had never met him, shared in the grief that we all have. I want to say thank you to friends who called and wrote to say 'we are with you in grief over this loss of life'. This milk of human kindness that so binds us is deep and thick. Thank you.

He. Poet- Dike Omeje

You told us.
You told us
In ringing tones
Steady beats as your voice trailed
Over our skin, our ears, minds
Your words, philosophical, lyrical, true
In the midst of laughter and rain
So many starless nights
You told us
But you never uttered a word.

You knew.
You knew as
We walked the town of a million mirrors
Clinked glass, clicked shots
Smiled and said 'cheese' for the camera
You let us take memories in any form
That we pleased
Silent in your pleasure,
We would go back to remember
You knew
But you let us go on in our ignorance.

Now we know
Questions crowd my mind

Did you groan with pain at night?
Far from our questing intrusive eyes
Far from our glances that rapidly turn
From curious to shocked to pity
Did you hate the thought that we
Could love or hate you differently
If we had that emotion to link to you
Is that why you were silent?

Were you shrouded with your own agony?
Shuddering in stolen silences you got
Cursing the demon that ate within you
Yet using the same to bring out a power
We marvelled at every time
Did you hope for a salvation?
Or were you just determined to be remembered
For how you lived and died
With the stubbornness of the strong.

Questions, dear sage
Inquire how you faced the hooded one

Did you fight when his cold hands
Clamped around your heart
Or did you bare your chest,
Invited him to plunge his knife
Facing him like a lion
Did you still have anything else to say?
Or had you made your peace
Knowing 'come what may'

Did memories cloud your glazing eyes?
And voices speak to be heard
Or was all calm, silent, letting you walk
The mirrored river in dignity
To that cold embrace.

Did you struggle to breathe just one more time?
Or did you sigh with relief
This war, no more to fight
Whatever way you went, brave one
It won't diminish that you lived
A strong man and died
A courageous one.

Bard with the 'come hither' eyes
You have closed them, one final time
Your voice ebbs and fades
Our ears tuned to hear the echo as it falls
You have walked the road of the elders
Kissed the feet of the shrouded one
Held his hand and danced in time
Not this lifetime again to meet
But while you were here, you made clear
You wrote, you spoke, you. Poet.

Adieu Dike Omeje- silent at the steps

My Cowardice

This is a story that I have 'published' on facebook but I constantly work and rework it all the time, its part of my forthcoming collection 'The Melon Mile' so I look forward to what you think about this-Have a great week!

Blood is dripping on the floor and I feel relieved, for once, I'm feeling something so different from pain, it is relief and anguish rolled together. It is so strange but I am comfortable. I feel in control. I had gone to see my doctor again, after dieting hard for about 2 weeks, I could feel my clothes hanging off me. Surely, I would fit the bill and finally be on the road to getting rid of them.

He told me to get on the scales and then, he looked at me. For the first time, I saw my doctor look at me with something different from detachment. He looked sad and I shook my head indicating 'no'. "I'm sorry love", he said "but you are still a few points off the ideal, actually just a point." 'A point!' I wailed, 'do you know how long it got me to this?' "I know love but…" I jumped up 'don't call me love! I want to be rid of this, every time I come you have a reason not to put me on the list; I'm starting to think you're enjoying this'. "Ah now, don't say that, I honestly feel your situation but I must follow the rules, left to me you are well over due" 'Then tell them your opinion, tell them I'm running mad with the wait, tell them now and I promise I'll lose the point before next week.'

I was desperate now and tears and snot were running down my face, but I couldn't be embarrassed, this man knew my body better than some lovers I've had, so there was nothing to hide. "You see, I would love to do that, but the rules won't allow me. I really think we need to work out a strategy because I won't want you to get drastic with losing the weight…" As soon as the words dropped from his lips, I knew it was a waste of time, so I picked my bag and walked out leaving him with his words. They held no meaning to me anymore, the nurse tried to stop me but I just walked out.

I got home and started cooking, I made a greasy sauce and poured it over pasta, grated a thick layer of cheese and I ate. I pushed everything through my collapsed stomach and felt it stretch but I pushed in more, I am dying, slowly and its starting to feel good. I'm standing by the kitchen sink not bothering to sit as I push the food into my mouth. I see my large knife and I grab it and pull off my shirt, rip off my underwear and quickly slash, the pain pierces my head and my hand starts to shake, I try to slash again but my boldness has deserted me.

I'm crying now as my tears fall on my chest and sting me. I so want to cut them off but I'm a coward and the pain unhands me, so I slide to the floor, watching the blood rise and seep, rise and seep. I bleed easily but I know it's not deep, I cry because at this point I want to die; yet, I am a coward because I want to live. I pick up my shirt and hold it to the wound,crawl to my bag as it lies on my bed, my hands shake as I drop the shirt and ruffle through the bag to get my phone. I pick up it up and call, 'come, I've cut myself'

Looking forward to your responses!