8 Jan 2012

Femme Fatale: Death Letter

The pieces to this puzzling memory have long been worn out by
my over-telling of this sad tale
but I can remember faintly
the circumstances under which this story played:

The lights were dim
so that you could make out shapes in motion
but you could not make out faces
because your blood was intoxicated
but you weren't even bleeding though you'd lost count of the shots.

And the soft music played in the background
so that shadows danced around in circles
like they were performing a ritual and
although you could smell the mix of potions
you remained unaware that you were the lamb to be sacrificed.

They said that Christmas was in fortnight,
minus three days that day.

Notice how this conversational monologue is
being recited in second person
because I did not arrive there that day knowing that I would be the last person she would open her heart to
or that I would ever wish to die so that I will not longer regret the words I spoke that night.

You see
she loved me
like I was happiness itself.
It was evident from the way her face burst
into colorful hues of red
like an artist was painting a rose
and forgot his paintbrush on her cheeks.

She loved me
like her soul was lost somewhere
in my eyes
because when she looked at me,
it was like without me
she would never find herself beyond the depths of her imagination where nothing is real.

and when they told me of their failed attempt
at excavating the cocktail of painkillers
from her stomach,
I knew that these archaeologists
must have discovered a thousand butterflies
that had already died of old-age.
Its sad
because I could have told her that
her "I love you's" hadn't fallen upon deaf ears.

That her kind words were like earthquakes to my beating heart
and that the mere thought of her
sent signals from my brain
to parts of my body I'd lost control of.

Instead, when we finally got to talking that night
I told her how she hadn't fought enough for us.
I pointed my fingers at her
and I shot her with painful words.
She bled this time.

I could have told her that she smelt like heaven
that she made my mind push clouds
and my hands mimic the shape of doves
because I wanted God to get my message.

But it was already too late the minute I let her walk away from me
because I did not leave that day knowing
that it would be the last night she'd ever let her heart beat.

- Merceds Onyemenam

No comments: