(to the beat of an Aṣíkò)

“Write.”

Why, because you think it would be about you?

“Write.”

What do you imagine? That I would express deep words of affection that I’m unable to say to your face?

“Write.”

Is this what you think?

“Write.”

What you expect?

“Write.”

What you want?

“Write.”

What about, exactly? Tell me.

“Write.”

Tell me what you want to read, and I will write it.

“Write.”

Come on.

“Write.”

Come on!

“Write.”

Whisper the words into my ears.

“Write.”

Let them flow out from my fingers.

“Write.”

 In an attempt to fill in for the missing caresses of yours.

“Write.”

Shout the words.

“Write.”

Break out in song.

“Write.”

Rap them.

“Write.”

Scream them!

“Write.”

Cry them!

“Write.”

Bleed them.

“Write.”

Anything, but make sure it is loud.

“Write.”

Loud enough to drown out the words in my soul that my fingers won’t translate.

“Write.”

Give me your words, because I do not have mine.

“Write.”

Give me your words, because mine are not beautiful.

“Write.”

Not artsy.

“Write.”

Not coordinated.

“Write.”

How can you leave it up to my fingers alone, to express this need of my being?

“Write.”

How dare you tell me to embrace the words in place of you?

“Write.”

Look up. Do these words look enough?

“Write.”

Do they?

“Write.”

You must be mad.

 

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