7   +   10   =  

Tell mother, I’m trying to sleep away the pains.
When the sun rises, I’m half awake facing it’s beam in absolute worship, hoping for a healing.

At noon, I want to be lost in laughters, talks, noises, poems, screams, children my pulling hair and adorning my face with wet kisses, sad songs, nature, deep words, and make home out of them.
But these homes come with humans.

Silence accompanied with memories peeps at me, loneliness stabs at me.
‘Hope’ and ‘wait’ dance mockingly to my direction .

At sunset, I want to be lost in a dream that never finishes.
Last night, I told mother, I can’t wait to get old and die, she looked at me and said “stop speaking nonsense”.

I meant, I can’t wait for time anymore…
I want to know what ‘waiting’ and ‘hoping’ will turn out at last.
My wine is fine and time has refused to tell.
I see the rehearsals in my dreams,
where my boat is stuck watching ‘hope’ and ‘wait’ on a ballet.

It crumbled last night, all I had built…
cobwebs of memories hunting me day and night.
They finally gave it a name…
I have joined the disorder brethren trying to find homes in humans who are fickle.
Homes that don’t know you
Homes that are deaf to you.
Homes that don’t need you.
Homes that don’t call you.
Homes that don’t look for you.
Homes that don’t care.
Homes that are strangers.
I fear homes now;
But, you will still find me at doormats waiting and hoping a home can accommodate my disorder, so we can swing together in an eternal mood.

Maybe I’m in love with a lie…a dream that will never be.
Atleast, the cracks in my cries still makes comforting lullaby for my little niece.

Maybe, we can’t really make homes out of humans.

By Veralyn Chinenye

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