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Issues

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Death to the woman I thought I would be

 

It’s 21:20 on a Wednesday evening 

 And I realise that she needs to go.

 This image, this woman I expected to be by the age of 25.

 

 

This image of perfection.

 She grew in my head, nurtured by the good words of others.

 ‘You’ve got this’

 ‘You’re so bright’

 ‘You’ll go far’

 

 But maybe that was the problem;

 

She wasn’t organic,

 She was man made.

 Grown in a culture of compliments with not enough dose of self belief.

 

 She would then graduate and join the company called comparison.

 Where interviews are easy to come by with adverts on Instagram, Twitter and in real life too.

 The only criteria needed was a spoonful of unbelief and before you know it you’ve eaten a tubful of insecurities.

 

 The turnover rate is criminally low;

 Some never leave the company

 But she has decided to turn herself in.

 She’s tired of anxiety alarm waking her up 

 And unspoken tears whisking her to sleep.

 

 But this woman. This woman in her head needs to go.

 They used to be joined at the synapse but life got in the way and try as I might to keep up with her she’s not there. Or maybe it’s me.

 

 I’m not where she thought I’d be at 18. 

 21- I’m still not there 

 25 is round the corner & there’s no sign of her there too. 

 

 Is it bad to say I sometimes mourn her; a figment of my imagination.

 

 I no longer want to be held hostage by the woman of my dreams. 

 I’m much more interested in the women of my reality because I have control over her.

 

 I’m not going to be bound by what she thinks I should’ve accomplished by whatever age because even if they never came I’m still me.

 

 And even though she occasionally whispers words of doubt I don’t have to listen. And soon she will die a slow natural death.

 

Her time is up.

 

'She'

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Don't forget to take a selfie

 

 

Come, let's take a selfie together

But not on my right side

On the left

Because that is my good side

 

 

Nah. The lighting isn't right

It's a bit too harsh.

Let's try that spot over there.

Natural light and all that jazz.

 

 

*Snaps*

 

Naaaah.

This is not it. 

Way too much light

Never mind.

We will take a selfie next time.

 

 

Except that next time never comes.

You've been shot

And I'm here trying to message you

About what the news is trying to say happened to you

And then I remember.

 

 

Dead people do not respond to messages

The connection has been cut off.

Permanently.

 

 

And now here I am trying to take a selfie

In every sense of the word.

I don't care about my right side

Or the lighting

 

 

I would give anything to take one last selfie together

With 

You.

 

 

Snap.

 

 

 

R.I.P. Abraham Badru