Writer
I’m here like everyone else.Like my husband, Santana,who dumped my carcass in the lakeand reported me missing. See the coldness that coats his heart. That day, I walk in and
Continue reading…Twenty-six years of marriage to a pedophile
He’s talking to the door he slammed,so you must understand he doesn’twant a complete shut-off—not the kind of permanence of death,the limitless infinity of shimmering sea watersthat become riversand then
The bastard was fathered by the chief’s first son,So we know why the palace delays his slaughter. The empty buckets carried for heads by the peopleWe’re afraid to call out…Our
I read your letter, child.And I think you’re just afraid. Afraidof being seen withand being seen by. AfraidOf starting off too early and starting off too lateOf moving on too
Broken people sit on thrones as kingsand in gutters as drunken men –who piss on themselves and diss you when you pass by.How can you take this personal? Broken souls
Dr Bassey, renowned professor of surgery, arrived the hospital that Monday morning trim as usual. No one sensed his turmoil beneath the smile, as he scrubbed and draped for surgery.