Femy II

Looking from afar, it’s a little innocent river .A youthful unexperienced virgin of a river.
Those who have been around in not so near ancient times say, it is a harlot .I do not
believe them. What do they know? They are still sprouting. Harlots do not like dealing
with feelings like that river does. Do no ask me how I know. I know, okay! Do not mine
for answers whose truths you cannot handle.
You never really know how deep this twisting cascading river runs, until you take a
close look when it calms. You open a window in your own soul. Look at your own grief.
Look at your own reflection. You claim it. You own it. Every debt it has ever come with.
You see things in that river that can only be seen in things that run that deep. You see
ripples, of sorrow. You see how ripping far and wide your sadness traverses when you
let yourself go.
This beautiful land is stifling. Its gravity dependants are stifling. The despondent state is
stifling and your sadness keeps travelling in circles, stifling like its orbiting your life and
you are some sort of holy king. You could be a king if they allowed it. But here, kings
ought to have queens.
You wonder when exactly this rule started. Who started it? If ever you meet him or her,
you will give him or her a piece of your mind. Serve him or her a platter of your
bitterness. Cut him or her a steak saucy enough to never ever want to go back for more
rules like that. These rules, are they written down in some tablet too, was it handed
down at Mt Sinai too? If only you still had your bible and you could GPS your way to that
truth, you would. Where is it anyway? Some bits did not go down the drain that night did they?
It’s a vague memorabilia sticking from the smoky silhouette of her, passing you bits of torn soft fluff through the toilet door, down your back. Wiping from front to back, like you were taught your kind has to wipe. In the dim candle light, you let go, with a strain, pushing down all of the things you no longer needed. Things you had digested long enough to know with absolute certainty you no longer wanted.

The bible, the beginning, the middle, the end. But you only have the middle. You never know if it will end, how it will end, with whom it will end. Was it something you were fated for? Do we really have a choice? I do not think we do. It is all chance. All chance that you were born you; wherever you are born, to whomever you are born, the way you are born, liking the things that you were born to like. Why do you like the things that you do? I just like. I tried once. To like things you wanted me to like. It was not the same sort of like. It is a like that still leaves your belly hungry, like your intestines are punched inside. Will you to try like what I like and see how that goes, mmh? But what do I know, I’m just me. Lost.

When you stall your search for a queen, people stop to ask, are you really fine. Like really really fine. You say, yes you are fine. That is what people say. Even when they are not really really fine. They just say so, so that people can leave them alone. These people though, they have not met Privacy or Respect-My-Space. Soon, they will meet Boxing-gloves, and My-temper-can-burn-bridges-you-know. You can be all those things...

Femy

Dear Sweet K

Have you heard of the river that swallows lovers here? I doubt you have. Even Raisin Bran’s mouth does not run that fast. Listen, right now, I am your Usain Bolt. I am telling you everything as fast as I can reach the finish line. Lest Raisin Bran beats me to it. Lest he spices everything up to a mixed masala pulp. Lest he sprinkles shades of truth in there. You know Raisin Bran can do that right, and when later you tell people he did that, and they ask him why he did that, he just wipes his mouth, washes his hands and acts all sweet, like the real dried raisin in him should be. Like nothing ever happened and you just made all of this up and everything dirty sticks on you like head lice, don’t you? You know head lice want your blood, like everyone will if they think you made this up right? So, allow me, to be the one who tells you.
Have you been to that raging river? That river were lovers drown but none ever float. That river were everyone is weighed down like you and me. No one knows how heavy they really weigh. The scales are screwed, unbalanced. They don’t calibrate well and when you try to balance them they slide you down. They slide you down, into that treacherous river that meanders like a slithering snake searching for bleeding lovers.
The river runs from the top left corner of Laventille through the thick carpet of the savannah. When it reaches Tunapuna it just nibbles on the rocks, kissing them ever so lightly like it is not that eager to engage in a scandalous French kiss with the stony hard rocks. It waits there: comfortably, patiently, feeling the rocks, playfully teasing. It seems sometimes, it does not want to make out. It seems to be shy, struggling with intimate affection especially in everyone’s presence. This river reminds me of you. Its heart is trembling inside. Fearful for what is to come.