I cannot tell if my lover or my father killed me first, but I died. Not as abruptly as I’d like, but slowly and painfully. With each barb shot at me about how worthless I was, I died daily.
Once bitten (beaten) twice leery I should have been but I believed my lover’s lies, he loved me, he would say rocking my body as we caught our breaths with our bodies still fused together. Well, he hadn’t loved our children because he did beat them out of my womb. So, I died bitterly as summertime sadness was all I ever knew. I dyed my hair and tanned my skin, I lost my figure and lost myself, but still I died; as mistress after mistress pulled the trigger at my joy. I was no better than the whores cause I belonged to he who was everyone else’s but mine.
I cannot tell if society or my mother killed me next. But I died. A woman should stick with her husband, no matter what he is . . . A drunk? Pervert? Lower than a Beast? Because even animals take care of their females and young
I cannot tell if fate or the devil killed me last, but I died. I watch life fleet before me as I lay content in the pool of my blood. Emotions surge to the surface, they burst forth… I am sad for I didn’t get to stroke my daughters’ hair, nor see my little boy take his first steps. I am confused as to why I was ever born; to die? I am remorseful for I let myself down; I feel I should have done more. I am happy for the world has one less abused woman. So I welcome death now, like an old friend cause I died daily. All is perfect in death, or so I think . . .
Monaleesaah is a black skinny writer and singer, who can be a substitute therapist, and can be baited and thus kidnapped with pounded yam.
P.s she loves, white, black and grey