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twenty-four years of decay,
a quarter of my existence gone
hurry, I must hurry
write down my legacy
in the space between your
nicotine scented fingers.
my voice carves a portrait
on t
twenty-four years of decay,
a quarter of my existence gone
hurry, I must hurry
write down my legacy
in the space between your
nicotine scented fingers.
my voice carves a portrait
on the walls of your bedroom,
forever corroded into the cracks
of your gold tinted vision.
the urge to love rots under this skin,
while I wear my dying wish
like a blanket of mould.
to love, oh to be able to just love
before the third quarter dissolves
into the rushing days into hours
before the earth eats me up,
leaving the last of my breath
behind the peeling paint of my
last masterpiece: loving you
-umaima junejo