These wee hours of strangled consciousness
I am roused awake; wide eyed and throbbing.
I have many hot and weakening tears to dispense.
They are an ode to th...
I am these words and let me tell you what else
I am those words you heard but refused to accept like the time Sister Margarite was told about her star pupil’...
I seek a pristine mind.
No longer hearing the stillness of the dead
Nor the raging voices of the living
Holding on, holding strong but not for long
One ...
Maina saw her first out of the corner of his eye.
A big brown bloop in his peripheral vision.
He was speeding down Moi Avenue in one of his blind rages.
His ...
I used to wish a downpour could carry away in its ebb and flow, the stench of my demons.
That on its way down to kiss my skin, it could collect something akin ...
He winces when the door slams shut as she gets into the car.
Sometimes, you can practically see the ghosts of sex not had, of words left unsaid.
She’s talking...
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One day, I will walk away.
I will casually whip my scarf around my neck and walk out on me.
I will pick up the broken pieces and abandon ship.
...
Mbithe Mosa is an African Literature enthusiast who is deeply in love with words. She is intrigued by both the beautiful and the grotesque. She blogs at mycolorsmyshadows.wordpress.com