Poetry from Temidayo Jacob


This is how the sun reminds

me of hell, everyday.

It pours its heat on the

soil to burn my sole and soul.

My body is butter.

The sun snogs me with hotness

and I become a lonely woman

whose vagina is awaiting

the company of her husband.

A boy once stared into my eyes

and prayed to me to let him

dip his index finger into me.

But I told him

butter kept under a scalding sun

is not meant to be touched,

you watch it die— and let it

find life again at the feet of sunset.

The boy stared at me again;

this time like he saw dark letters

of rejection brightening my face.

The sun climbed down my body

to create a shadow out of the boy.


I don’t know

what to call this.

All I know is that

there is this attraction

between my body and bullets.

I’ve heard of men

who defended themselves

with bullets.

I’ve hears of men

who won wars within themselves

with bullets.

But, here I am,

thinking of muting my body

with bullets.

This body doesn’t worth

self defense.

This body doesn’t worth

winning wars.

It is an incomplete building

stuffed with broken bottles,

ugliness, dirt, with no windows.

This building can never

own completion because

there will never be enough

resources to complete it…

except bullets; one or two.

When will you understand that

sometimes, gunshots are

noises that stop other noises?



                scars do not                 heal.

they make us Ill                 and drag us                 to

                           young graves. The scars

on my body are

                                                                                                                traps looking like maps,

leading strangers into different cities of ruins.                                              I don’t want their feet there.

So, I try to put a                                                          closure on this fissure.                         But these strange legs

still open them with toes.                                                                                 Sometimes, no matter how many bandages you use to cover scars, something will still open them

                                                                      and make them strive for air.

                                                                                                                                                                         I saw a billboard:

“Give destruction to every part of the path                                                                           leading to destruction.




                                                                               So I… So I… So I…throw

                  this body into fire like                   pieces                   of                   pitiful                   papers.

Who wants to see proofs of his own                                                                                           destruction?

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