Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member. See also gaborone poems gaborone collections. Tawanda Mulalu Apr Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, this is who I am.
This is my story. It is only coincidence that I sing it to you, but sing, nonetheless, I do. One morning amidst the restlessness of my top-bunk sheets I heard a whispering and thought it might be God it was me. My unconsciousness begging me for nourishment, silently loudly attacking my awareness with questions: it asked why I neglect it.
Pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek, is this, too, why your body vibrates when your thoughts are feelings? Because you too have recognized feeling as thought? Selves: we call them books but they breathe. The ideas wriggle in your veins like a worm. They block your blood yet move your soul. The stillness of your speechlessness is some movement in itself.
So I suspect of you, pale-skinned girl from Indiana, with freckles, yes, freckles, on your cheek. So I suspect of myself. I do not understand how else I could have been born without eyes which we call eyes. I cannot see why else. I cannot. You cannot. There is light over there in that darkness. A glimpse of it- a sliver of silver has shocked you into your paleness. Into my blackness. It is the same difference. A different same. Line break: A mirror tells me things with my eyeless eyes.
In the distance that I gaze into I find myself gazing into a distance I gaze into. Fathom it. Do not. Will not will it will it will not willed. Touching it will wilt it without touching: this is the soul you said does not exist. It is not there. It is. In Indiana. Where's that? Over there? Suddenly I smell something and it is myself. It is not Indiana or freckles or pale-skin.
