I won't cry tomorrow okay?

I cried a lot today.

Yesterday, I cried a lot more.

And Thursday too.

The tears rolled down my cheeks and slipped straight into my keyboard

They rolled and rolled until my vision became blurry,

So blurry, I couldn’t find the “I” key.

I screamed a lot,

and jammed the tail end of my blanket into my mouth to reduce the noise

There’s just too much to cry about, you know?

For one,


It never chooses me,

It never has.

But despair?

I know it like the scar on my left cheek,

The lining on my stomach wall,

Or the knife I press between my palms,

One I use in slitting the lines on my left knee

In the dark,

Despair is the sniper I keep behind my bed

Just in case,

Or the voices that whisper to me at night

They tell me I’ll be fine, then they add “or maybe not”

I don’t like what they say sometimes, or how they say it

With mockery,

                            Fuck them!

I don’t want to leave yet.

I need to see how my mother turns out,

Will she be free?

Free from the umbilical cord father wraps around her neck?

Happiness wants her,

I see the way it flirts with her, teases her,

And hugs her wide hips.

But she won’t choose it,

She’s just like a 4-year-old who’s still latching onto its mother’s breast


when they’ve been soaked in bitter leaf water

She’s so silly.

I’m listening to Ubomi Abumanga

All of it is very soothing,

the drums and piano.

And that voice? oh, that voice!

I’d like to close my eyes to it but,

It tells me life hasn’t stopped. That it doesn’t stop

and that the birds are awake.

What do I care?

I’d like to mint some Non Fungible Token

It’s just that I think programming is a pretentious language, all that

init function: excess code( )

over.what? ( ‘huh?……)

some lifeless website?

I used to think happiness was lying in a boy's arms at three twenty-six AM,

Swirling In the dizziness of a dose of molly,

Or in the adrenaline of brief successes

Until those hands held me against a wall and forcefully entered me at three thirty-six AM

And my presentation for the Logan Inc account fell to pieces.

What do you say to the girl who can't feel her thighs?

Or to the child who has tripped into a wet gutter?

              Get up?

I won’t cry tomorrow


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