Born in the hood into a calabash of suppression
and oppression
my unripe dreams are shattered by incessant slips of painful thrusting
my unrounded breast suckled by uncles
whose trust I had placed my fate but turn vipers
whose venomous stares at my thighs inconvenient my very living
what is the essence of my presence when my life hangs on the swing of patriachal suppression?
Please tell them
I am yet ripe
Let them know that
I am only Fourteen
I can remember
When conscience was a virtue
living in the heart of men
we were groom and trimmed up like the roses in the vases
we were mothered in love not murderd in rape
we were nurtured as dove
not treated with lustful love
now conscience has become an alien
sitting on the lips of men
now
conscience has become scriptural messages on the lips of sycophant preachers
please when you see men
Tell them
I am only fourteen
I can recall
when the dignity of a girl was respected till her prime
when her fountain remained untapped till her time
but now my little valley is watered with steaky moisture from older uncles' rods
which arouse in me a pleasure bordered on pains
where do I belong
when my hope of living sinks at dusk
only to rise at dawn
my world is beclouded with pains
please tell lustful men
I am only fourteen
If I go the way of the mortals before my sun rises
please do not cry for me
for death is a welcome relief
in the heart of the wounded
it is such a sweet transition
to a leaden soul
Who would I pour out my depth to
when the machineries set to protect me are fended off?
My pains have become mine alone
my body theirs to own
Since all lips are locked from spitting out against her tears
since no one wants to carve out her voice to the world
then I shall give my voice her suffering
I shall paint her sorrows until it becomes a household word
I have worn courage as an attire
I shall preach till this ink paints on every sheet
for I was told that writing is a painting of the voice
please tell licentious men
she is only fourteen