One pill…
Two pills…
Three pills…
And another…take my hands.
Isn’t that a perfect metaphor for how you go bananas, dig your feet into those coloured clips, stain your teeth with the feel, stain your fill with the filth, and assume the other filths fade?
Isn’t that how it makes you feel? The peel? No?
Then talk to me.
I want to hear it…take my hands.
This time, get high on the drug of my attention, snort on my love and exhale passion, and if clasping my hands will help, take them, let the tension go.
At first I didn’t listen because I thought it wasn’t you speaking. Your liver called out to me, your lungs did too, your strained heart cried out to me, I heard a million tears fall from your triggered body.
I don’t know and I probably won’t understand you. But I know that nobody puts a gun at his throat and expects to survive.
Give me the gun, and take my hands.
Dear Amanda
Ice Nwa Ǹkwọ
D. Niel Quchi
© 2020
Christ a poet 