After MK Angwenyi 

so now, it becomes a matter of what to do with this grief. 
it’s not enough to have it 
to let it consume me 
until my throat constricts with the biology of it. 
i also need to let it make a home inside me, 
which is just another way of saying: 
i’m fucked up from missing you. 
how do i do this then? 
how do i take the memories and fold them 
into something as beautiful as origami? 
how do i scrub the ugliness off? 
you say it’s possible 
and to people, i now say:
i’m sorry. 
something died in here 
having been alive only yesterday. 
there’s no reviving it. 
so i stay put and i 
listen from inside del rey’s music 
hoping to uncover the question 
to the answer i now hold in my palms. 

these are the things i want to say to you 
things that can only be said in the spaces 
between the spaces between the silence 
that now exists between us. 
i am breaking, i’d say. 
look, here is my hurt/heart. 
trace it. 
memorize it. 
claim it as your own. 
hallucinate my hallucination back to me. 
make me feel like i’m not alone in this.

About the author:

Amanda Nechesa is a writer and poet from Nairobi, Kenya. Her work has been featured in the Kalahari Review, Efiko, Qwani, Kikwetu Journal, The Kenyan Standard Newspaper, and elsewhere. She is also an in-house writer for Qazini magazine. When she’s not writing, you’ll find Amanda in places she’s not supposed to be, looking for a muse.

Feature image by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash