I will prose these lines of my death into existence


I will prose these lines of my death into existence,

I will split open my wrist and die on a Sunday, await my body to float above earth,

offer myself up as a living sacrifice,

me, diving in back to my body,

my body accepting it doesn’t belong to itself, picking up the pace of a chariot ,

picking up blades to cut through skin that doesn’t exist,

me, watching mother,

mother, dissolving into salt tears,

sister, turning into a river of tears,

me, turning into a pillar of salt.


bodies without phalanges


I should stop praying to my dead self, find a way to come back into inhabiting my skin, own my soul like I didn’t in the first act of living.

Imagine me floating from the river, from the sky, into my hair, then my face, then my skin & imagine mother wearing bright clothes like all expectant mothers do.

In death,

there is no such thing as resting forever,

In living

we drink to the memories of lost one’s resting forever.

I ache to curve my mother’s face into my palms, tell her am here but ghost are what they are,

bodies without phalanges,

so instead I choose the body of a small child, mother, I am no longer gunning for my own extinction.



Ejiro Edward is a female writer from Nigeria. A passionate lover of the arts , she has been published in some online magazine and shortlisted for the dark juices anthology. She loves to travel and read. Twitter: Ejiroedward552 Instagram: Diasporapoetry