Michael Akuchie
Dear Self
"Tomorrow, I may find slight breath/ but I swear it's just to say goodbye" — Adedayo Agarau
The letter I write now is a room
in this storm. The ballpoint pen is
a key the door swallows before granting access.
The grief I do not outline hangs
on my shirt, body & spirit. It is a
scab I feed growth by scratching. It is always
in my mouth, thirsty for voice to imprison.
I am first writing about a loved one gone through the flames.
How dusk levelled the sunshine she carried in her eyes.
How God walked away from her. Confused like the rest of us.
I could open this door of hope filtered into a
page length paper. Work out a seamless passage.
Or I decide to bury this dream in my chest with a knife.
The tip carving out a portion of skin for storage.
Or maybe the storm is the quickest way to conclude.
The letter I write now is a room
in this storm. The ballpoint pen is
a key the door swallows before granting access.
The grief I do not outline hangs
on my shirt, body & spirit. It is a
scab I feed growth by scratching. It is always
in my mouth, thirsty for voice to imprison.
I am first writing about a loved one gone through the flames.
How dusk levelled the sunshine she carried in her eyes.
How God walked away from her. Confused like the rest of us.
I could open this door of hope filtered into a
page length paper. Work out a seamless passage.
Or I decide to bury this dream in my chest with a knife.
The tip carving out a portion of skin for storage.
Or maybe the storm is the quickest way to conclude.
Biography
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Michael Akuchie is a Nigerian young adult writer and dreamer. He studies English and Literature at the University of Benin, Nigeria. His recent work appears in Barren Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Ghost City Review, Burning House Press, Neologism Poetry Journal, Peculiars Magazine, Honey & Lime Magazine and elsewhere. He is @Michael_Akuchie on Twitter. He is a Contributing Editor for Barren Magazine.
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