Domestic Violence

By Owosho Abdulbasit

“A home scathed by the enemies

Can rise again,

But the one that crumbles from within

Is dead forever”

That was what the paper

I flipped at Papa’s tomb reads,

This was me after I evolved

Into a merciless monster.

A night rewrote everything,

A minute after the sun bowed out

It was too surreal to be real

From the rough kisses to the tough caresses

The Fists, as I tried to stand against his feast.

He journeyed beyond the furthest,

My ‘mama saids’ wasn’t beating his eardrum

He wandered till the unreachable,

He raged the holy yards

And slaughtered the sacred

Stained sheets,

Tattered textiles

A stigmatized soul

That day, a different me was birthed.

These diaries are for the dead,

These broken windows and doors

Can tell an episode

Of those saddening scenes;

Failures, disappointments

The endless echoes of dad

The bearable bemoans of mum,

As her face display beautiful bruises

Home is no more home

Mother is no more the first school

Father is no gabriel

Scattered hearths

Scathed hearts

my Mary have betrayed her yahweh

I’ll pray no more for my parent’s redemption,

I’ll hold home responsible for my predicament,

Mum and dad for my misfortune.

This could never be a poem

These broken letters,lines

Staggering stanzas, this poor poetry

Mirrors the heart I’m wielding

In the valley between the Everests of my ribs.

These could never be diaries

Nor blank wet sheets

They’re empty souls

That carry stunning stories,

Stories that need not alphabets 

To be taled in details

Look beyond these wet sheets

They harbour alphabets that garb eerie emotions,dead feelings

They’re not blank, actually

Only sad souls can see through the veils

To savor them

And save me from the black holes of being unheard.

Copyright© 2020 Owosho Abdulbasit

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