Make a wish when you see a star, break the glass when you see a scar, for it is easy to leave, and hard to love a specific part of your body.
If I die now, it is that I was always myself, never loved a man, or had my heart broken. I am incapable of loving a man, a mere man for that matter; men are too easy to understand, make an effort and fuck them, or so my empty, lonely heart thought.
I step up my sex game like I am in a race to please my male audience, I thought it will be easy, days when I had a low cut and worried less about boys and breasts or phones and toys.
It was easier growing up on my street where you were the one that no boy was looking at; I hated sex, I often said, of a truth, nobody wanted me in that way or guided me in a way that I could understand it; I wasn’t like the shy girls who were a bunch of sweetness, I was the girl who didn’t care about what I wore or how I looked, I thought it was easier that way when the attention didn’t span my direction, I thought it was easier to solve the problematic physics and chemistry equations, maybe boys will like me.
It was easier to play with the boys, but they did want to play back; some of the guys called me their homie, and I didn’t want to be a homie. I wanted to be like the other girls they made efforts to get, the ones they wanted to hang around with after school, and I wanted to be the girl who everyone associated with simply because I was beautiful and clean. I hated girls who were beautiful and clean. Their parents were rich and gave them what they wanted. In my case, I had to come home and do chores or feed the chickens we would sell for Christmas or even go to the farm, fetch some wood, split those woods, and make cornflour with okra soup for dinner.
I started using curse words, maybe the boys will notice, a few did, but not the ones I wanted, I started to playfully tap my male friends in an attempt to be noticed, rub their heads and poke them, I began to show an obvious crush and they still didn’t want me, I was angry and sad, but I guess the pretty girls had life easier, or so I thought.
It is crazy now. I found sex from many wrong attempts, my first attempt at nineteen. It was too many fights with myself, too many times when I thought I wasn’t good enough when I thought I could make money from it, from killing a creature I was part of its creation. Now people want to fuck me. I make it easy to fuck me because I know my body now and how to satisfy it.
I dusted my cigarette with a pen and thought about days that it was just playing with my friends or talking with my mother innocently from the eyes of a six-year-old, tickling my sister and running to hide, sharing the only meat left in the pot with my sister and cousin before we hurriedly leave for school, rushing to our neighbors’ house on Thursday at eight to catch up with the super story, or even driving our tires with a stick through the streets on an errand for mum, it was easier.
Now I’m between walls of darkness, moods I can’t define, things I can’t unsee, memories I wish I had created, the love I wish I had shared, moments that I hope never happened. Looking at my mom, I realize her love for me is genuine and that if she had other options, she would do better, for she honestly fed my cat without hesitation and talked deeply with me, even though we seemed not much of a pair, I was the reflection of herself, a younger version of herself, she connected to me in a different way that only a soul can give, I showed her, her soul.
The weed that I am smoking
Cigarettes I’m dragging
Books I’m reading
People I’m fucking
The money I’m seeking
The validation I’m still looking for
I tell you, my friend, none of this is easy, like owning a cat, standing up for your family, being responsible in a way that involves self-discipline, making an impression, following trends, keeping up with friends, hell, fucking!
I thought it will be easier for me.