Servitude
“I suppose there’s a difference between voluntary and involuntary sacrifice.” – James Moore
I mirror my head above my shoulders, and it appears humbled, // completely dislocated from its joint. I have honed my body into a dagger, // stabbing the metamorphic rock inside me, // scourged by this tussle for survival I’ve always long to elude. I’ve always been a hustling boy, // under nature’s paw, // gathering myself to feed what is left // the venom of a tumultuous body. I don’t know if cutting my placenta from the bittersweet spring, // in my belly, // or the oasis of my existence // will eclipse my transition into an image // of an overripe blackberry. How can I prove that each of my body members is malleable // by a wayward raven I elegance by war, // or embers dying from charring the living? I’ve burned /bɜːn/ my skin to the whirr of lashes // in my father’s body // and the anguish that asphyxiate his blood into caustic lime, // so I might fill his vacuum. I exsanguinate, // not knowing self-mutilation to mean burning my skin to please the fire for long. This haemorrhage bothers me. For too long, I wonder if ‘’m a reincarnation of a slave boy // that accumulates embers // to feed whatever is left inside of him.
A Girl Ago
I made a mutant of a girl’s body, & Aurora set
to offer me wine on my sinful palms.
Our bodies, gourds of new wine,
language in lust, lewd fricative—
our love was a crime.
Once, I attempted speaking-in-tongues under the influence of interjection
like the drunkard frolicking in harmful intoxicants.
Hypersomnia cupped my obliviousness.
Her mother, queen of whores,
hurled her into a beautiful brute.
How she left a blunt note behind, cupped my coherency.
I learnt the heartbreak the size of our friendship,
two of us spilling into aftermath—
racing past bison and tulips,
before us bruises plastered against our skin.
Like this, I am like my own misery
the way anguish comes in the form of corporal punishment.
I lost the tide to this side.
Some night, I dreamt we both raced into expulsion.
I know she is mine.
She is mine, I know.
We are not so different, though minuscules would have me believe otherwise.
Yet I kept this thought for years,
praying the future would unfold now.
Excel Chinagorom Michael is a Nigerian writer and content creator living in the suburbs of Aba. His most recent works are on Brittle Papers, Pawners Papers, Yellow House Magazine, Esktasis Magazines Fiction Niche and among others. He was shortlisted for Pawners Papers Maiden Award, 2024. He works as an English teacher and a proofreader.
Cover photo credit: Kharl Anthony Paica