I have never been good with emotions but I’m an artist with fists.
Sometimes I prefer beating myself up with a bottle
Because Mommy said that’s how you make beautiful canvases.
She would say, “Life ain’t a fairytale,” because someone
has to do the dirty work of mining the pixie dust.
On nights where I became a home for dear mother
She would tell me how pixie dust was made out of
broken dreams, hearts, homes, and all that God did not deem worthy.
From that day on, I have mastered the skill of hiding bruises.
Being black and blue means you’re closer to being ash. Pixie dust.
I have come to accept that my lover’s hands are like a boomerang
Always thrown in my face and quick to come back
Because that is how God answers her prayers.
Quick, and with such passion for those whom she loves.
Her love needed to be seen, to be felt. I mean, how do you get someone to believe?
Mommy says I need to be strong and strong people must be tested.
She says God forgives, so must we, for days on end. We must love as if we don’t hate.
She says this with tears in her eyes as if God will flood the earth again.
As if life would hang its gloves and her fists would not feel a bit heavier every day.
We both needed saving but our screams were not loud enough to break glass
houses.
I have never known what love is but I have felt her.
On days where she wanted to take me to the grave with her.
But I knew how to hide the blue and black away.
I learned how to smile because the world won’t bury a smiling corpse.
And I refuse to be turned into pixie dust.
© One Pamela Pusumane
Bio: One Pamela Pusumane is a young creative writer an poet from Botswana who is passionate about writing pieces that push the boundaries and get people talking about the things we tend to shy away from in our daily lives. She is currently pursuing her BA(Hon) Social Sciences undergraduate degree at the African Leadership University in Mauritius. You can also find her work on Instagram, Facebook, and Hello Poetry.
Hmm. I don’t think there’re words describing what I’m feeling right now. Because your description of that oppressive hand and the plea for her to remain the passive recipient is a fact, Unfortunately. There’s work to be done. And educating both male and female on this issue is essential.
Thanks for sharing this piece.
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Mind blowing!
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Things such as this are difficult to read but we need to read and acknowledge that these things happen. They happen every minute, hour, and daily for many. I was hit once by a man when I was 19 and told him I didn’t think the relationship was going to work out. That stopped that day and never had it occurred again. Hit me once, shame on you. Hit me again, shame on me… JMHO
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Reblogged this on Brave & Reckless and commented:
One Pamela Pusumane on Whisper and the Roar
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Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
At The Whisper And The Roar, One Pamela Pusumane gives a poem of a pain that called itself love.
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A powerful piece. We thank you for sharing this with us, One.
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Thank you so much for accepting my submissions and allowing me to share! 🙂
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What a way with words.
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