#soultayi

[soultayi]

the violin is pulled taut the sound shakes my teeth and you find me cowering besides the bed. the softest of touches on my jagged cracked skin breaks me. i fall apart, i come undone, i unravel at your touch and you stare at me as bones become indistinguishable from flesh, you look at the bloody mess i have turned into— what the lightest of touches has done to me. . .and in the glow of the setting sun, you begin to eat.

(it’s monday evening after my first shift at a new job and im thinking about how i will hide my eczema while listening to a violin mix on spotify. violins always makes me think of vampires which always makes me want to write poetry.)

[soultayi]

the words in my throat have dried up and when i try to swallow i taste poetry that has turned sour. like ash. but now. i sit beside a railing on the edge of the thames. a man plays a harp his fingers are so gentle the strings look like silk and the sun is setting. i can hear the waves and i think maybe the words haven’t dried up- perhaps i have had nothing of truth to say. or maybe nothing of substance of permanence. and the water continues the gentle caressing of pebbles. all of this is truth. substance. permanence. the tightness in my throat is just… tightness. it will ease. and eventually, it will go away.

[soultayi]

i open my mouth to speak and fumes come out. what i want to say is / what i mean to say / i just wanted to / but / you are staring at me with a kindness that settles in the bottom of my stomach. heat blooms. i am still looking at you as you turn away from me and words make a shape in my mouth. but you have turned, smiling to the sun. skin glistening.

[soultayi]

i will show you rage like my mother taught me. i will show you what it means to be angry. let the violence of my words sharpen knives. run your pale fingers through bloody black hair and in the throb of your wounds i will show you how rage strikes. in the darkness you will hear me. in the shadows of your room you will feel me. you want to be angry? you want to raise your voice? let the baritone’s of mine who came before me reverberate off the walls and back to you. you want rage sweet sister? i will show you how the mouse squeaks and the elephant jumps- how even the smallest of creatures packs a punch. i will guide you through it. let all you have enacted behind closed doors find you. let guilt consume you. let anger settle in your chest and squeeze.

who raised me?

just wait and see.

[soultayi]

it is true that my mouth has never been able to shape shona words like a native. it is true that my tongue lies restless in the curve of its home as it tries to replicate the smooth vowels and soft notes. it is true that my fingers play the mbira like a piano. i press and press and beg the sound to come out melodically, but i was raised in the west with its conjunctions and its firmness. my mouth stern and solid as it braces against the violence of the wind. i melt in the african sun. the hardened edges of my body thaws out by the kindness of the beams. england has never shown me such tenderness, such warmth- i am greedy in my appreciation. i want to soak it all up. leave no part of my body untouched. i allow myself to be ravaged by the heat so when i return i am not so stiff, not so hard.

[soultayi]

i got it wrong. i’m not hard to love, i have internalised every knife thrown against me. caught every bullet with my teeth and swallowed past the lump in my throat. the wounds have festered- scabbed over and i thought it was skin. i thought this is what i look like. it hurts to touch, the infection spreads. there might be someone underneath it all but i must dig her out. the bandages don’t stick but i keep trying. the salve burns but i keep trying. through gritted fucking teeth, scabbed hands and the tears…i keep trying.

[soultayi]

into this bed i sink. my thoughts are vines , then snakes, then poison. i imagine my death. i write my obituary in red pen. the ink never dries. my body is a graveyard, finger prints belonging to her marked on my skin like faded scars. i wonder if we’ll meet again. if it’s possible to look each other in the face and not crumble under the misery of burying what could’ve been.

i blame you only when i miss you.