Featured Poet - Sonnie Ibadah

BUT THIS TOO SHALL PASS

As we stroll through shadows of yesteryears,

Grief and I,

Both weary of each others company, 

I seek recompense,

While she seeks to make sense,

Of my luck...and why I have summoned her yet again.

     (As if that would change anything)

Maybe she feels safe around me, Grief,

Or maybe I feel like I owe her 'feeling'

But whatever the reason, 

Like a good host, I offer her a seat,

The best on in the house; my mind,

Where she can watch my reason battle my will to live while regret cheers in the stands,

Where she can hear Isaiah 41:10 debate my depression while my insecurities shout their demands.

She rarely speaks, Grief,

So she never answers back when they say,

"This too shall pass."

I think it is because she knows that even after everything, 

the familiar ambers scorch, still, 

with the heat of words unspoken, still,

with the smoke of silences that linger, still,

All burning too fierce, still.

I tried to starve her once,

Withheld the salty rivers from my eyes,

But she survived,

Breathing in the air in my lungs 'til I was left gasping,

Feeding off the energy from my bones 'til I was down crawling

So I stopped trying to fight her.

For what is the use of toiling against the tide,

When every wave that crashes, brings another near?

So with the scent of ash,

and the taste of longing on my tongue.

I call her sister.

And in her rich contralto she reminds me that I'm never alone.

SKIN

And if I'm being honest, 

I never quite liked this skin.

It always felt odd ... alien.

Clean but never quite stainless.

Clear but never quite spotless.

And no, it wasn't the stretch marks on my butt wanting affection,

Nor the extra melanin on my joints demanding attention,

It wasn't the scars from learned lessons or lost trust,

Or the extra body hair that one guy swore wasn't "feminine" in utter disgust.

It was just.simply.me.

I was the alien in my skin.

I was the odd one out ... or in this case, in.

Heaven must have made the vessel just right,

But poured the wrong soul in it.

Personality too large, spilling over the 5"4,

Patience too little to quench the Sahara in my veins,

And a conscience too loud to ... just.be.happy.

But yet He says, 

"On the day that I cleanse you from all your iniquities, I will cause the cities to be inhabited, and the waste places will be rebuilt ..."

Please, do tell Ezekiel,

Has your God ever seen anything quite like this?

Desolate faith not built on sand, but upon rocks that still weathered over time?

Tell me, will it all be rebuilt once more?

Or is my faith too feeble to survive the walk between the altar and the door?

Anyways, maybe I should be proud of my skin,

Because even though it's not pretty, 

Or hard enough to keep the hurt out, 

it's still strong enough to hold all these thoughts in.

(BRING) FLOWERS TO MY GRAVE

Do not speak to me of patience.

Of endurance and martyrdom,

When it’s not your skin that’s contoured in black and hues of red.

Nor your battered ribs that make you feel like you’d rather suffocate instead.

With each breath,

Pain sears your insides,

Floating like scum upon the sea tides.

The sempiternal ache humming through your veins like poisonous magma,

Burns through your sanity time and again.

But God forbid you cry out in pain.

God forbid you cry out at all.

So, long sleeves and plastic smiles save the day,

Armoured with the most enthusiastic, “I’m okay.”

Do not speak to me of trust.

Of self-esteem and courage.

When it’s not your heart that races at the sound of his footsteps,

Nor your mind that incaves insomnia with slight rustling of sheets.

Each movement,

Each tiny shift in his expression—

Freezes you in place like a frightened prey in the darkness.

Thinking that pain you can get used to, but not this.

Never this.

It’s not you who has to hide your scars like stolen jewels,

Or refrain from doing anything that would “break his rules.”

It’s not you whose deformed limbs are attuned to the rhythm; break, mend, repeat.

While shackled by the chains of fear and defeat.

Do not speak to me of forgiveness,

Of letting go and letting God.

When it is not your pleas that echo the hollow skies,

While your tears dry at the desolate alter.

Wondering when the valley of the shadow of death ends,

as you woefully stumble through.

Praying, “Deliver us from evil.”

while the devil is singing hymns next to you.

So do not speak to me about love,

Or judge the scars on my wrist.

Not when my body is his canvas,

and the paintbrush is his fist.

A QUIET IN MY VEINS

When I told my mother of the dark cloud looming over me,

Of it's talons enclosing on my throat,

She said it was "the devil"

And that I "wasn't praying hard enough"

"Enough?"

I looked down on my charred knees.

     And the broken beads on my rosary,

And wondered how much would be considered "enough." 

When I told my father of the violent tide rising in me,

Of the storm raging in my chest,

He said I was being "dramatic"

And that I "wasn't being grateful for what I have"

"Have?"

I looked down at the sanity slipping through my fidgety hands

     And the scars from my deathless throes

And wondered how much of what I "have" can be ransomed for just one clear breath.

So I sat still.

Quiet.

And I didn't tell them about the sleepless nights,

     Or the voices that won't quit.

Of my soul's missing pieces,

     Or the ones that don't fit.

Of the stains that won't come off, 

     No matter how much I scrubbed.

And the chocking desolation that has my reality numbed.