This morning, I bring forth the epitaph to be crafted on my forehead, bury me

I do not owe the air the right to take a breath and breathe out toxic words lined up on a queue for slaughter 

one time or the other, I realized that I had dipped my finger in guilt and licked its broth, well-seasoned with my father’s alarm reminding me of my dynamic surname pulled out of the house built for nameless babies

father wraps guilt like a scarf around my neck choking my lungs from revisiting freedom. it urged me to die, die and die again

don’t resurrect on the third day if you are a woman

bury yourself 

I die because everyone dies to me in the bid to open up the shadow of a new god

I die because father clocked 60 and 60 times I remember the death of the sun

I die because I lose my broth of guilt. 

I die because I am a shameless woman 

I die because the queue for slaughter ends with my throat 

 I die never to resurrect on day 3

do bury me 

Jesse Emmanuella Pheebemi (Hassana)