Omoṣéwà.
I like to wear your colours. I like to clothe myself in feathers and act like I can feel you sneezing all over the house screaming “Take it off!”. I like to act like the clock is not ticking anymore. Then I walk over to the mirror, strip naked, play the blues and I see you staring. But not at me. That damn phone!
Then I lay on the bed, make a risqué pose but you stand up and leave. There I lay. One hour, two hours and eventually, shame mocks me. I put on the damn robe and sleep. Do you not see me? Fine.
Omoṣéwà. Love yourself.
Every time your silence mocks me. When I finally protest, your words hurt me. So, I learn to sit. Just sit and as I sit, I realize, damn! Four years. Four years and you still do not see me. Four years and my heart flutters but I wonder if yours will ever do the same. Then you break. You break the only reason I held on. I thought eventually, you'd see me. I thought we had a bond. One that will never break. LOL. Your words were imprinted in my heart. I could swear I knew you but the truth? they knew you. The cheating, the lies, the fighting words? Those were you.
Omoṣéwà. Live
So, I do what I know best. I move on. Cry a little. Oops! A lot. Pray some more, question my existence. Fuck it! Strut. Then I live. I make wild decisions, I forgive you and then I realize, damn! Two years. Two years and I never broke out of this gold-plated cage. Then I strut to the mirror, strip!
ṣéwà!! The demons.
I face them and burst into tears. This is not who you are ṣéwà. I gave six years. For what? Fear. First, the fear of never being loved if I leave. Four years I watched you screw me over because I loved you more than I loved myself. The remaining two years, I sat in my bathtub, hot water running down but too scared to let go. To let go of the hurt and embrace Love. You know, Softness in Love.
Omoṣéwà. Let it go, Again.
Well, I figured it was about time we call a truce? Oh! Not with you. I met someone like you. The difference? He is who he appears to be. But he is just like you were the initial three years. No commitments, just strings. What did i tell you about strings that do not attach? They get tangled. Then they break. Just like you were the drug I was addicted to, so he is. Too addicted to let go. Too scared to ever ask for more.
Omoṣéwà. Embrace you!
ṣéwà, you are beauty laced with honey. You drip and when you touch me, I feel awakened. Omoṣéwà, you are. Everything you should be. Drugs for the soul and joy to the heart. You are laughter on the lips and my favourite curves. ṣéwà, Look at yourself. No, really look. Your breasts welcome a head to rest on it and your thighs open wide enough for ecstasy to flood the gates between them. Omoṣéwà you are beauty. Beauty laced with Sugar.
Omoṣéwà. Raise your glass.
To another lesson you will learn. What will it be? To let go early enough before you get broken again. Cheers. To rewriting history.
Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it — George Santayana
