Dear Crush,

This has taken five shaky years of my life to pen, but I am happy I have conquered time to execute this without excuses or iceburns.

This is an irregular bant from my heart, but I'll squarely work with time to twain our unreal reality. I am not the talking person, that you know, so I'll be the writing person I have always been. Just bear with me.

Please take this as my heart's professed farewell to you. I'll attach the last puzzle of my heart to this note, you're free to savage it, as always. Your teeth no longer hurt when you chew into my skin, vamp on dear, vamp on, I am not in pains. Drink. Crack. Suck. Chew. Swallow. It is your work oh!

Dear, love isn't as beautiful as you think it is, but it is as awesome as it should be when you realise it is an offspring of a problematic culture that heals and hurts in a linear sequence and that its thrust continues like my grandfather’s old, unsteady, yet devoted twelve hours pendulum clock.

Trust me when you love, a certain part of you is lost in a vortex you will or may never be able to emerge from, it is normal, don’t feel like a curse was placed on you. No witch was involved, no curse found its way into your body or emotions, it’s just you finding a way of replacing, and repressing, and suppressing, and rejecting that rush threatening to tear you into unequal halves.

My darling, I was there with you, but like the ocean you rose powerfully, yet another surfer found a way through your waves, while I gathered momentum and all I could do was to be an observer.

I have spent three smoke-smiling weeks of my mirage-like life in a strange bed, waking to the unwelcoming beckon of strangers. But, like a bird, I have perched on the tree of love. I have met them and they have met me, and they have spoken, and I have responded to the warmth of their unserious seriousness.

I am more talented than I really think I was or knew, this they have made me realise in no time. This discovery would have been beautiful if I could attach a piece of me to the falling piece of you.

For two years, I rehearsed you. Your smell. Smile. Talk. Poise. Charm. Name. Yet you were another falling star every time I almost sorted out who you really are. That hasn’t been enough for you, you took with you a part of me every time you left, all that is left of me now is a wreck of earth. I’m tired of you, don’t keep my body if in your heart I am like a fish outside water.

But Ife Mi,  you know we can make a beautiful mess, painting our hearts in the sun – and if we ever part or perhaps never exchange words, remember our souls were forged into a sword, a souvenir from the sun. I know you love the sea, we could pick shells playing rhythmic elegies to the death of you and me – yet chant praises to the birth of us.

Let’s trade words, sell hearts and gain souls. Let’s dance with the wind and watch the smoothing warmth of it cease us into the prison of its mind.

Ife Mi, I call you this, for I have become a wanderer on an icy blind path, be my guide and I’ll be a blessing. I hate to say it but five years of me you have vamped, you’re free to drink up every drop of it.


The crushed.