And they taught us how to fire guns at a young age
Running through the maize plantations like crazy people
Pledging loyalty to the sound of guns, cocking them, a daily mantra
Cramming the algorithm of polishing boots, till the reflection of horrifying images radiated on them, catatonic emotions overcrowding our judgement
Shortcut to hell just a bullet away, propelled and perpetuated by dirty hands, soiled till nails become licorice black, not the type that would hold and caress a woman, no way!
And with all that, they forgot to tell us of how short the life that was to come after the exchange of bullets would be
The life that failed to instigate measures of how to undo the sight and stench of death
How to look her in the eyes, without the visages of the people we killed staring at us, threatening to haunt us to the grave
Or how to hold a bouquet without it dripping with the blood we shed back there
Or how to react when her voice is on the other end. They didn’t prepare us for that, now that we are here, crossing that bridge, we are afraid of getting to the other side, the untouched conspiracies bother us, the high chances of self-sabotage underway.
So, forgive me, if I arrive on my black stallion, weather beaten wanting my boots to be taken off, longing to be drowned in love, afraid to look in your eyes, to prevent the dead from boring traumatizing thoughts, in your heart.
Hope my words will sound convincing enough and that my voice won’t be ragged and chipped
I hope that when the demons and ghosts come knocking in me in the middle of the night, that you won’t have to run away but hold me closer, as you stroke my hair, whispering words of love.