POEM: When Her Smile Became My Wound

I gave her my heart like yam in a clay pot,

warm, soft, steaming with trust,

but she sliced it with cold eyes

and served it to silence.

I built my love like a house in the dry season,

brick upon brick,

thinking the harmattan would bless us,

but she opened the roof

and invited the rain.

Her laughter used to heal my tired bones,

now it cuts like the edge of a new razor,

sharp and careless.

They say a man must not cry,

but tears know no gender

when betrayal lives inside your chest.

I walk through the streets with my face strong,

but inside,

I am a market after fire —

empty stalls,

burnt memories.

O, woman,

why call a man “my king”

only to sell his crown

for the price of another’s attention?

Why kiss with honeyed lips,

then spit bitterness into the same mouth?

I am learning now —

love should not be war,

but if it must be,

let my heart hold the shield next time.

The Creativity Site