how to not follow the norm
this work does not in any way glorify or praise anyone but thyself.
i do not like to fold my mouth so that it resembles a “sorry” shape,
when you poison the air with foul odor, claiming apology when i
accidentally bump into you,
i remain still, like a fig tree cursed to wear barrenness proudly.
– when you proclaim my first words every morning are not healthy salutations.
– when you try to bend me into a caterpillar when i desire the colour of a butterfly.
– when you say god is not man but man must worship god & his direct representative— fat, swindling & greedy preachers.
– you mould me into a soft, gullible lullaby. (dearie, i crave the deathly air of metal punk)
– when you overlap your tongue inside my internal affairs & advice forcefully how i must direct
your words are not
enough torture to reconfigure my life.
i am not here to seek acknowledgement or approval for deciding to follow the sound of
my very voice.
fuck everybody — i’m about to make my body a craft, like an art.
worship myself & glorify all the portions my formerly adulterated senses never recognized.
this is how i communicate with my body:
softly, copying a baby’s touch
carefully & considering it before i jump into a word or
force it from my lips.
bodies are vulnerable citizens of the world,
objects that must be captured by force, tortured
& bent into what we want.
i am taught to dress up like a cuss word, throw myself at my body
& die inside its mouth.
i am promised rebirth:
words are sweet, dipped in wine &
strong enough to send the mind veering off course.
i soak my words in hate, liquified anger &
hurl it at my body, bearing hope that the inflammable
weapon consumes my body, taking me… no my body…
taking it apart.
i own my body.
it is a false representation of my cause on earth.
teaching my body to love is harder than deceiving it
to live. my body, sometimes likes freedom, plays with
that concept & urges me to walk with it into its light.
i slap it (myself) into submission.
“you cannot be flying when i choose to let my feet kiss the ground.”
i am not always drowning in monologues or
talking myself into a poem. some days, i hug my body tightly, kiss it once for good
measure… twice for comfort… thrice… god no, i am not gay. fuck no.
god says he is mad at me for chaining my body. i do not
care about anything nowadays. all i want is to
float like a ring of smoke, wander into the mouth of a hallucination
or simply give the whole world a blow job.
tonight i am not the oppressor
& heaven is not the only song begging to be let out of my lips. my body proposes a
truce, says we gain nothing through conflict. i am not listening or
wanting to care about its feelings.
i kiss it & myself.
am i a big joke? my body decides to accept my ways though they do not resemble
normalcy. we coexist & surprisingly, live through each other’s lives.
Poetry © Michael Ifeanyi Akuchie
Image: Pixabay.com remixed