Salty Saturday’s: CANCELLED

Cancel one for speaking out of a name.

Cancel your subscription because the network fucked up with the variety. Your definition is not that and White Chicks is no longer acceptable.

(Can’t take my memories away. Bare jokes fam!)

Cancel my online order because they keep messing up my groceries.

Cancel your car insurance because you know you’re a great driver! Besides, you wanna keep all your coins.

Cancel your mind because your thoughts are docile and you don’t trust your law or anyone else’s.

At the end of the day, one day will be your last.

Salty Saturdays: The Mom

The mom called her daughter a bitch.

She spat on her and accused her of sleeping with her best friend and another.

The mom punched her daughter multiple times in the head. She stuffed her mouth with cotton and wished her dead.

The mom choked her daughter and labelled her ugly. She felt that being dark was ugly. If you ain’t light then you ain’t right! Right?

The mom showered her daughter with negative thoughts. She always told her that she is nothing and will always be nothing.

The mom left marks on her daughter. Other moms agreed with the parts she shared with them. They spoke louder so the daughter could hear how disappointed they were with how she ‘treated,’ her mother.

The mom played the victim when confronted with facts.

The mom made sobbing noises on the phone to her friends. But her eyes remained tearless.

The mom blamed the daughter for everything bad in her life.

The daughter prayed and prayed and prayed.

Her eyes are so puffy from all the crying.

The mom lied and cried and lied some more. Her stories spread like a virus.

Salty Saturdays: Maybe – 27.02.2021

Maybe you eat the chicken raw if the chicken is what you like.

Maybe I cut the phone because I hate social connections.

Maybe you drink out of a larger cup because you’re greedy and don’t give a fuck that there’s nothing left for the rest of us.

Maybe I raise my eyebrows at you, for hoarding your shit. I hate it. All of it.

Maybe you apologise for being a dick and then wank yourself with an old sock.

Maybe, I’m just overthinking the possibilities? I mean, didn’t you say you were vegan?

Salty Saturdays: HER – 13.02.2021

Once my hair fell way past my shoulders.

I never used to think much of it.

One night I stayed over at my aunt’s house.

One night she cut my hair down to 2 inches.

The next morning, she braided it in brown hair extensions and said nothing.

A few weeks later I discovered my hair had been cut.

In my thoughts, I skin her scalp back.

I cut off her forefinger and middle finger.

I clip the corners of her eyes, with a pair of toe scissors.

I sew brown extensions into her scalp and saturate it with oils.

One afternoon I saw her.

One afternoon I heard her horrible voice.

One afternoon I played the fiddle and watched her fall hard.

Her husband had cheated on her and took her money.

Her husband came back to her house.

Today my hair falls past my shoulders.

Today I type and I write my truth.

Today her sins caught up with her and she swirls around endlessly in a deep pool of salt.

Her eyes are burning, and her tongue has fizzled away.

My word, she’s a waste of life.

Salty Saturdays: Reception – 06.02.2021

Reception – 06.02.2021

The reception was about as weak as waiting in the rain at London Victoria coach station.

I thought receptions were about a celebration of some kind, whether that be life, death or like earlier, love? Maybe, I’m not smart enough to comprehend the meaning behind them.

On the menu was a traditional Sunday roast: Chicken, potatoes, carrots and gravy. Only, what we were served was dried out chicken breasts, rock hard potatoes, cold carrots and watered down gravy.

My cold plate was washed out with cold hard objects, they labelled fine dining.

I was seated at a table with a pursed lipped smoker and her ashy fingers. Fingers that kept accidentally brushing my exposed skin and a wrinkled mouth that said, ‘forgive me, love. Your skin is so soft, I use the finest lotions on my own skin, see!’ then reaching out and grasping my hand. I lose count at the third attempt.

Now, I love apple crumble and custard but the crumble was more like a chunky apple sauce, with a crumble dusting. Topped off with cheap, lumpy, piping hot, sugary custard. My stomach was growling and the drinks were tasteless.

The reception was a damp attempt to please the masses.