First Aiders for Broken Hearts

Wind-Song

“Wingsong” by Michael Escoffery

No one can touch
a broken heart like a writer.
Even doctors are not skilled enough
in matters of the heart like that.

The writer drills the love-hole in
the reader’s heart further with their pen,
which may or may not be painful,
removing the rest of the waste
that was left behind,
or that the reader had tried to fill
the empty space in it with.

Then they may fill the hole up with words,
promises of a love that would be easier and sweet.
That is the most the writer can do,
for no one else can completely heal
the injured heart except the one
that the reader truly loves.
Else, their heart may never be fully healed,
and they may hurt themself and others.

If the reader does not dig the writer’s words out,
and they try their best to trust again,
they may be fine till “the one” comes,
the new one that will give them new love,
for the writer’s first aid keeps the
heart alive till the reader meets
and becomes their own healer.

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Karma is Fundamental

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Michael Escoffery

They had Fun.

They ripped her clothes off and took turns,
pushing themselves deep inside her,
not letting he go till they were satisfied.

Don’t we all know that
Fun is a ruthless, psychopathic man
in the body of a young girl,
a young girl with perky breasts,
not very large buttocks,
and slightly round hips?

Fun got up,
shook the sand off her hair
and wiped the dust from her knees.
With blood still dripping from
between her thighs,
she laid them flat on the ground
and had them too,
slashing their insides and
filling them up with her acids,
till they began to scream and beg in pain.

They squeezed the rose,
and they loved and enjoyed doing so.
The thorns law-ved and enjoyed
every drop of their blood and sweat too.

No Clay for You Anymore

Peju Alatise

Peju Alatise’s Art

I put my heart and soul into
molding a clay pot for you.
You didn’t ask or beg me to,
but for some reason, at that time,
it was the thing that I cared most about.

In the course of molding and shaping,
I asked if you would let me drink
from it when I was done,
from you,
if I ever got thirsty.

Looking back, I’m not sure if I had asked for too much,
or I had said something terribly wrong,
because the resounding “no!” that I heard
cut me deep in the soul.

At that time, I would have become water for you
whenever you were thirsty,
if you wanted me to.
I would have fed you milk from my breasts
and honey from between my thighs if you wanted,
and maybe that was too much.
Maybe too much was asking for me instead,
so he could cut me in the throat.

On my 21st birthday,
you told me to break the clay pot,
and when I was done with breaking it,
you stepped on it.

Testamendo-de-divorciado.jpg

I cried and begged and said
I could start all over again,
and I was sorry,
and I wasn’t one to use clay pots,
and I didn’t really want to drink with yours,
and I loved and fantasized about plastic plates instead,
and my question was hypothetical,
but you didn’t want to hear it.

I got so vulnerable around you,
and I always wanted to tell you everything,
and maybe I shouldn’t have been like that, you know,
maybe I should have kept some things to myself.

Ten days of depression.
Ten weeks of uncontrollable tears.
In ten weeks, I gained so much weight.
In the next ten weeks, I lost so much,
so much weight,
so much happiness,
so much zeal,
so much reason to live,
so much you.

Before the spirits took me away,
I looked for you
and waited for you
and cried for you but
I didn’t see you.

Where were you?

It’s the tenth month, and you’re back,
not for me,
not for the pot,
but for the clay.

You’re going to pretend like you didn’t squish the clay?
Like it’s a sweet new day today?
Like you didn’t send me away,
and nothing happened yesterday?

The karmic tie is broken
and I’m done.
Stay in your lane
and I’ll stay in mine.

I wanted to squish you
the way you did me.
My goodness,
I was a sensitive thing.
It’s not worth it anymore,
those days have passed,
and I’m glad that I, at least,
got to kick you at last.

 

Ládékojú

Ládékojú is life; Ládékojú is death.
Before she puts death in your mouth,
she places life in your hands.
She is loving, sensual, sweet, seductive and kind,
but she’s not as meek as they make her seem.
She’s the gentlest but
the most dangerous of goddesses-
the one you don’t want to mess with.

When she is badly offended or hurt,
she laughs uncontrollably.

She walks by the offender
and makes goo-goo eyes;
she shakes her buttocks
and sways her hips.
She walks to the offender
and lets him see her beautiful, perky breasts.

She kisses him and places her head on his chest,
falls on her knees and licks her lips;
she holds his penis.
Then she closes her eyes
and licks the tip, round, like a lollipop,
and when he’s ready,
she bites into the penis as if it were a hot dog,
and cuts it into small parts.
She gets up, laughs again,
adjusts her head gear and strides away, proudly…