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Censor Me.

To you who looks at me like I am a walking mortuary, carrying a dead body.Looks down at me, looks pissed off at me, looks suspicious of me. Every day this mortuary, having to re-polish the floors, spray away the smell of death. Make the outside attractive so as to not scare away the living. But you still stare at me dying inside. Stare moulding and fungi inside. Stare mourning and waiting in the dark.

How many graves are clogging your eyesight? When you cry do your tears burn or are your eyes used to setting aflame lives? How many sleeping pills do you take to shut those suicide eyes?

You who carries a sword in mouth, speaks to me like we are at war. Cusses like I am the battle site. Soaking in the blood of your farmer forefathers.                                              Needing to remain looking like I have just been crucified, just been nailed to the ground, just been beaten up and beaten down. Tattered, raggedy and ripped by the lions. Needing to look guilty and scarred.

What kind of words do you use to pray at night? Do you choke when you chew with so much venom in your tongue? What does the inside of your mouth look like?

You who hears me as a whisper, an unsuccessful attempt to nearly exist. Knows my presence as a blur, a shade of almost nearly there. I am a whisper.                                        Must remain, neither here nor there. Must blend in, must avoid becoming a bellow or a scream or a siren just linger in silence when you are near. Must not be recognized, not clearly heard and definitely not uttered twice. Must remain vague, said under your breath, folded inside your chest, scrunched up and waste. An ellipsis of what was not said.

How many bombs have accidentally exploded in your ears today alone? Do your ears bleed when too many whispers are circulating in your head? On a scale of Madam Sparrow to colour-blind, how deaf are you?

To you who stacks stones in your socks. Walks under me like a bulldozer. Stomps your feet to make sure that you are hearing the sound of your big boots walk over me. Glancing behind you to marvel at the dust rising to the tread of your destruction. You walk over me like ash. Stand up to me like skyscraper but terminator. This body neglected construction site. This body heavy and leaning to the side, can’t get back up. Might just be the limb blocking the view. Distorting the composition. This body decomposing. This body disqualified. This body null and void. This body rubble and trash. This body Triomf. This body Sophiatown. This body unidentified.

Do you have to remind yourself that you are not a machine after you take your shoes off? When you wake up in the morning, how many dead bodies do your feet smell like? How cold is the marrow inside your bones?

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