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Temidayo Jacob

Fresh Water

​i am not meant to spit some stories out of my mouth, because like fresh water, they have a very low amount of sweetness. i have many stories with titles like grief, tears, fears, and some other things. there is a story about the first time i surrendered myself to a girl to be used. there are so many names for sacrifice, and crucifixion isn't even one of them. a curtain once danced to grief and it got torn apart from top to bottom because there are many stages of grief:
 
                                                                                i
                                                   you hear about your father's death
                                                 and a sudden burst of electric energy
                                               hits you running from your head to toe
 
                                                                               ii
                                                pain — the enemy of pleasure — sees
                                                your body and soul and mind worthy
                                                  of providing shelter for its sojourn
 
                                                                               iii
                                                  guilt doesn't make love to you only
                                            when you make love to sin; it also kisses
                                              its way into the depth of your sorrow
 
                                                                               iv
                                            you do not need fire to become enraged;
                                            sometimes, a reminder that you just lost
                                            your father is the only trigger you need
 
                                                                                v
                                            you'll plead — "death please, bring back
                                          my father. i promise never to smoke again
                                         if you just bring him back to me right now"
 
                                                                               vi
                                            every daylight is a replica of the night
                                       every lullaby transforms into a dark dirge
                                        every water starts tasting like insecticide
 
                                                                               vii
                                         at the river; you, the moon and the waves
                                        — waving goodbye to your father's breath;
                                          recalling memories and renaming them
 
                                                                              viii
                                          dawn comes; sunlight begins to break — 
                                           like a chick breaking out of its shell — 
                                         into the darkness in your bloodshot eyes
 
                                                                                ix
                                         sunrise like this is not for birds to sing — 
                                         it’s for you to reconstruct your body and
                                          fill the void your father created in you
 
                                                                                x
                                          like songbirds with mute voices flying;
                                        you accept yourself and your emptiness
                                          and your silence and your everything
 
                                                                                xi
                                     look beyond the horizon; make for yourself
                                     a deep sigh of relief and hope one day your
                                        lost voice will return and you will sing

Biography

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​Temidayo Jacob is a Sociologist who writes from the North Central part of Nigeria. He is passionate about espousing the conflict between the individual and the society, especially through identity, sexuality and conformity. He is the CEO of foenix press. He is also the author of Beauty Of Ashes. Temidayo's work has appeared and is forthcoming in Rattle, Outcast Magazine, Lucent Dreaming, The Temz Review, Peeking Cat Poetry, Page Adventure, and others. He is also a contributor to leading anthologies. You can reach him on Twitter @BoyUntouched.
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