The Kenyan Seer

  And I did not notice when it came creeping in Or maybe I did but chose to let it win Out of nowhere, my heart beats faster, My jaws lock tight and I yearn for approval. I spend hours on the same email, The same résumé, the same text, Begging to undo every error. I mince my words, my no I retract I rethink, retract, just regurgitate. I delete the post, rewrite the caption, Ask GPT what to reply. When did I become so critical of myself? When did making mistakes feel like blasphemy? Am I allowed to hurt  Just a little with my mistakes?  I pronounce it in my head, undo the accent Craft the response again, resay, rehearse, Recraft them before I bring them out. Even my prayers feel less than true I forgot the justification, And I am trying and retrying To reclaim purity that was not by my works. My vocabulary now includes: “But I am not sure.” When did second-guessing take over my life? This nest for anxiety. And trust me, this thing chokes, gnaws, And slaughters every ounce ...

  I was doing my rounds as usual, Rounds through my Instagram feed— Then I met bloodied panties, Her whites, stained red. With my bleeding heart, I thought of her pain, her tears, As he made the tear. Her “stop” met his grunts, He knew not of entry denied. With every vile thrust, He tainted her soul. Once his “mission” was accomplished, Balls emptied like his brains, He leads her to the bathroom— His grotesque version of aftercare: Wash the stains away! I still think of her stinging pain, The echo of her cries, Her soul, forever stained It had been stolen, Given away to a predator, A dunce, thick-headed and vile. I think of her thoughts: As it dawned on her Defiled she was. Taking responsibility? He knew not. “It was a drive,” he said, “An urge I couldn’t stop.” He blamed his addiction, His appetite to kill, To kill her white. I thought again, Of the statistics—1 in 3. One in three have been stained By those closest, The ones they once trusted. And when we say, “Stop the rape, kill...