I sang lullabies with eyes stitched shut,
my voice a cage, a shackle wrapped in silk,
but I didn’t know love could be a knife until it cut us apart.
Lips shivering, I tried to read you the language of ghosts,
but your silence was the loudest thing in the room.
I didn’t understand loneliness that way you does
not until you set fire to the bridge I built in your name.
Words became smoke, thick with incense and regret,
and now, every night, your ghost drips from my thoughts like black rain.
I birthed a blood-drenched poem,
tore apart my ribs just to let it spill out.
A eulogy for a love that never made it past the womb
but I spoke it anyway,
kept your picture alive,
even if it was nothing but ashes in my mouth.
Tonight, I scream to Chineke,
begging the river to swallow me,
to drown me in its cold,
because, love,
I’m already a ghost,
walking around in my own skin.
Huh.
There’s something broken in the air,
and it smells like black boys do you know that?
bleeding out in metaphors.
Every black boy is grief wearing flesh,
a hunger that can’t be fed
by the world that never wanted to love him.
Stephen Nwankwo is a poet, short story writer, and essayist who graduated from Father O’Connell Science College. He wields words and aspires to soar to great heights. He takes his writing work very seriously and is dedicated to sharing his vision with the world. As a member of the Hilltop Creative Art Foundation, Minna Branch, he continues to hone his craft and inspire others through his writing.
Cover photo credit: Lalesh Aldarwish