In the stillness of my heartbeat’s rhythmic pauses,
I feel pangs of neediness.
The need to be left alone even when my skin craves holding.
The need to cradle a grudge for things the world owes me not.
The need to need nothing but myself in a sea of people picking my time on earth like mana on frosty mornings.
I, a blank canvas awaiting spurts of blood from aching souls that try to slit away their own pain from swollen wrists whose veins are tired guitar strings worn beyond tune bearing.
Red is such a fickle colour.
It wants to love, while burning, while screaming danger and in the same decibel it calls all who are hungry to come and eat.
The red of every drop of blood is not the same.
It carries all secrets harboured by all those who part with it.
When all the blood dries in all its hues of dark brown to scarlet,
Connoisseurs of all things canvas shall come and waylay me in my stillness to psychoanalyse the blood patterns.
They will lie about how I wanted nothing but to escape this realm and give back the gift of life to my maker.
They will forget that I wanted nothing but to be seen by eyes that were not paid to pay attention to my ailments,
Or ears paid to listen.
But they will remember that once upon a time I walked among you and took on so much that I left a dent in the world.
Frank Malaba © 2018
