This is the story of a girl, who smiles to the world, with teeth as bright as pearls, playful with the young and old. She was grasped while still tender, placed into skin that didn’t fit her, and played a role that she was only half able to act out. Her eyes had seen pain in her past, how treacherous mankind can be and how it lasts, and how love’s not how it’s depicted in the movies.
She kept the memories fresh, convinced herself they’d hurt less, and that she wouldn’t walk the same path as her mother. Yet history is but a circle, entraps the mind in its web, and she stumbled on a path that broke her just the same.
She tore at her heart, wanting to rip it apart, for the innocent flesh had become stone-like from misery. She stayed so whispers would hush, planted upon her face the happiest mask, while sadness seeped through every cell within her body.
She laughed a little louder, her acting got a bit better, but even the best actress has to see the curtains fall. When hers came to shut, the sharp whip of her tongue struck, and it was clear that her suppressed anger and dismay had fermented into a poisonous brew.
She was pardoned and set free, but the handcuff on her finger left its mark, and she knows that her past innocence can never be retrieved. She scrawls on dead trees, her tears flow through the ink with ease and she questions the purpose of it all and the purpose of her being.
She knows not who she is, nor the life she should lead, once thinking herself to be carefree and secure. She steps into new shoes, skin taut from her blues, head held high enough to be amongst the clouds. She focuses her scarred eyes ahead, unflinching to the heart that bled, hoping that with time it would heal itself.
A skilled archer takes a shot, it lands in a certain spot, and a strange warmth ensues to wrap the wound with hope. Her mind warns of the dangers, how she mistrusts herself and more so a stranger, for the tricks of man can be wondrous on the senses.
She lets the arrow sit, allows it to heal her bit by bit, knowing there’ll be a time when she must remove it to watch her soul bleed. Until then, she dons new and wonderful masks, continues to scrawl on dead trees, tears flowing through the red ink with ease, still doubting who and what she is, and she wonders what the point of her being… is.
© LaYinka Sanni, August 2011.