BY Margueritte Mokgaetji Pitjeng [Mo], South African Currently in Veszprém Hungry

I got this thing for you, I never lost it

I crave for love like the Jones’

Yet I possess hammered windowsills up my walls

“You can’t heal me”

“I don’t wanna be saved”

Although she still creeps up your window

Hoping to find you seated next to the fireplace

Paging through ‘How To Kill a Mockingbird’

Gently tucking at your left thumb.

Probably thinking on whether mockingbirds could be assassinated

Seeing you nip at your lip

After absorbing a good chunk of moisture from a natural form of utensil

She loves it when you do that

Giggling and oozing of butterflies from the pit of her soul

They call it sincere affection

One with no regard for flaws as they seem more joli upon this beholder

A promise held so dear, yet time could never be frozen

It was upon the windowsill

Where she sought to cater for lost feelings

Because as she sparkled with delight and her clothes warped with sour cold

He held on tight to composed alphabets, flickering flames and a 30cm thick painted wall

Forgetting she was fading away.

One Response

  1. While reading this, I tried all I could to fit myself into the story. I was, unfortunately, successful. This has brought to me a guilt sensation which hit at the back of my head. But as I continued reading I got a feeling that as “toxic” as I can, be there’s someone who’ll always appreciate me being in their life.

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