
When will you stop hurting me?
A question I ask when I am not ready to walk away
When I do not want to walk away,
I have been waiting for when, for a long time
Sometimes I forget that I am still waiting
Forget that I should eventually leave you,
Escape you
It always feels like an escape to leave those who abuse me,
Where do you think you are going?
A question which froze me to death
When he found me at the bus station with a luggage,
The bus was also not ready to take me with it
Nothing is ever ready for me,
Take me with you, do not leave me here
Pleadings of prostitute to any man who cares to listen
We make a home out of anyone who dares to listen,
What should I do now with the five of you?
It is better to have all of them love me at once
It is appropriate to court whoever shows interest,
What is not appropriate is comparing my house to a brothel
And my husband to a pimp I cannot escape,
It is the love letters he had written that I cannot escape from
A testament that he was capable of love at one point,
A point which I became something to someone in a long time
His side which I shall help him find again,
Through all the broken ribs, burnt thighs
And emotional breakdowns
Have you ever been something to someone,
Who had no one their entire lives?
Someone who needs to be taught how to love?
You are constantly asked,
If you leave me, who shall I remain with?
It is always those who remains in times of darkness
And despair, who matters
It is always the remains of a battered woman in the veld
For us to remember it could happen to all of us,
For me to remember it could still be me
But he is anything except a murderer and a rapist,
He simply prefers making love to me when I am bleeding
It is one's blood that draws predators to circle you,
To cheer for you when you walk tall in a pageant naked
It is my blood that gives him life and keeps him around,
Others donate it in hospitals and clinics for strangers
To make a difference and save lives,
I make a difference for our household and pay with my life.
About the Creator
Isaac Ramaphala
I write from a perspective of a suicidal butterfly.




Comments (1)
Nice