She wrote her final words with a purple
Pencil—and left them on our bed for me
To find; sometimes she wished I’d leave, or die.
Apparently her wish was hers to find.
And now I’m so sick of staring backward;
If the past is gone then leave it alone.
It owes me nothing but a shred of life,
Or a glimpse of the love who was my wife.
The harm she wished upon my skin was false,
Driven by the pain inside her body.
If death could just take one away, then she
Could find a way to move on peacefully.
I find myself in need of pain, her pain—
Her immortal words, these purple stains.
Still Living on my Feet is the follow up to Tichaona Chinyelu’s first book, In the Whirlwind, which was rooted in a sense of hard-hitting revolutionary black love. However, in this sophomore effort, Tichaona brings the revolutionary essence from deep
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