(cover photograph direction: Victor Akhere)
These waters could cure anything, I swear.
Forget the world and its insistence to
conquer. Forget all those teeth. Forget the
rejection that had dragged you mercilessly to
the bottom. You have tried optimism. Said
“nowhere to go now but up”. You have
realised now how the body is tender. And
easily ruined. And white as a lamb. And white
as paper. One touch, then the blood. One
touch, and the ink poured. So scrub. Stand in
the center. Hold still, hold soap against skin.
Scrub. Wash all that pain and frustration and
anger. Scrub. Don’t forget the blood, the
sadness, the scum. This lather, nothing more
than another amniotic fluid. This bathroom,
nothing more than another dark womb. In
which end, I come out and
meet myself, a new man.