Her words are deep, and perhaps, far too deep, because they do not come from her heart. She writes and speaks with passion only because her words come from the pitch of her stomach. As these words travel up her torso, they avoid her heart like a plague.
“Yemoja” [Artist Unknown]
Her heart is severely wounded, so she strives to protect her words from blood stains. She chooses not to release the words that live in her heart because they are filled with pain.
She is hurt and she is weak and she is dying slowly, but it’s not for her listeners who need healing to see…
The only way to be a man is to not be human. Don’t cry; be sad, but don’t say why. Don’t feel; hurting someone is the best way to heal. Don’t express yourself when you do feel, and if you must, do it with clenched fists.
The only way to be seen as strong is to insist that you’re never wrong, and if a woman isn’t under your absolute control, you can’t be a man on your own- you can’t possibly be whole.
No lips are lovely enough for my lips. No words or verses are good enough to make me feel like a woman. No car or house is expensive enough to fit my ego, and my dreams. No food and promises are audible or legible enough for my vagina and squirt. No man is big enough for my arms; no man is worthy enough of my love. No hands are good enough for my stunning breasts and thighs; no amount of your money is large enough for my hands.
I don’t need a man to be happy. No man in the world.
I don’t need to be chained by a man to be free. No man in the world.
To be successful, I don’t need to suck on smelly man-candy. No man in the world.
No man is big enough for arms. No man in the world. No man in the world.
I was born with a broken heart, and no one can care for me or love me enough. If they don’t care for me or love me for a day, I’ll go back to being paranoid and hurt, and I’ll be much worse than I was before they came into my life.
No light is bright enough for my darkness; nobody’s trust can make me totally fearless. No love is compatible enough with my heart; no brush is good enough for my art. No air is fresh enough for my lungs; no drums are good enough for my songs.
I must learn. I must learn how to love myself. No one’ll ever love me more than myself. No one’ll ever love my self more than me.
Love proves to you, and quite painfully, that letting go is not always a lot easier than holding on. The former requires all the strength you can give; you give everything you’ve got to let go. You lose the things you once held dear, you loose yourself, and you lose your old self. It’s like death, and death is scary, but resurrection is beautiful. Go through the pain and resurrect beautifully; it’d be a shame to die and stay dead.
Ládékojú is life; Ládékojú is death. Before she puts death in your mouth, she places life in your hands. She is loving, sensual, sweet, seductive and kind, but she’s not as meek as they make her seem. She’s the gentlest but the most dangerous of goddesses- the one you don’t want to mess with.
When she is badly offended or hurt, she laughs uncontrollably.
She walks by the offender and makes goo-goo eyes; she shakes her buttocks and sways her hips. She walks to the offender and lets him see her beautiful, perky breasts.
She kisses him and places her head on his chest, falls on her knees and licks her lips; she holds his penis. Then she closes her eyes and licks the tip, round, like a lollipop, and when he’s ready, she bites into the penis as if it were a hot dog, and cuts it into small parts. She gets up, laughs again, adjusts her head gear and strides away, proudly…