THESE BOYS ARE THINGS I CAN NOT CARRY

The first boy I loved had scriptures inside his belly. He was a harvest of religion cultivated by his mother. His mother was God’s human jar: God tucked himself into her skin and was not ashamed to show it, one would mistake her for the Holy Spirit

“My mother will no doubt sit on the right hand of God” he’d say
He bit my lip when we kissed and when kissed longer— he bit the baldness in my vagina. I did not fuck the first boy I loved. I feared I’ll fuck God out of his mouth.

The second boy I loved had babies in his waist. He spread me open and dissolve them inside me. He’d drop his eyes inside mine when he is inside me. Seven times he forgot his waters inside me, Seven times I washed them away when they moulded into faces. This lover was a god, a creator of things that did not live. When he slipped off my hands slowly like dry sands. I spat on his face and asked if he knew i carry breathless babies that refuse to call me mother.

The third boy I loved was a dynamite
He burnt Sodom into my lips. He called love a myth, he called me a loud city
On the nights I cried, he filled the air thick with snores. He’d wake and say tears are waters that refuse to find home in the belly. But on nights he sat on the same bed burning with weakness, He pressed his fingers into my bones and called them home.
This lover was a wanderer, he traveled from city to city; and every city he called home.

The boys I loved are blurred demarcations of my soul and my body. I did not tell you of how they leave — they chew on my skin till I have no tale to hide. They cut my tongue and make homes out of them. They drink from it, they feed on it, until they are cursed enough to be full.

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