It hurts,
but I want it
the way thirsty lips
want rain
even if it’s falling through ash.
It’s poison,
and yet the taste
God, the taste
sits on my tongue like velvet,
burns down my throat like winter fire.
Am I meant to be broken?
Some days,
I think the cracks in me
were carved as invitations.
I hate
that I love it,
hate how my hands keep learning
the shape of the wound.
How can I not trust it
yet hunger for it still?
It is the knife
and the hand that holds it,
the cup and the venom it carries.
I am the moth
that remembers the fire,
feels the heat
still raw along its wings,
and leans into the flame
because light
even cruel light
is better than darkness.
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi
Ifedolapo Ogunniyi 