I saw it coming.
Rushing through fragments
of consciousness
through predicated
barriers
that kept
out your
predicted
presence
And like those presents
we get on Christmas morning
I knew
how to stay
in your absence
And yet you still came though
;
Maybe
dreams can be nightmares too
Maybe
they were never dreams to begin with
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Genessa Panainte
Diving
deeper and deeper
into oceans
Holding on to everything
letting go of nothing
,
Sinking
into everything
I never wanted us to be
and
simultaneously
did
–
Gasping
In the pursuit of more
Still
Wanting it to end
–
Needing
air
8.25 AM
Morning
© Hudson Biko
I woke up to it
Threading itself
into threads
that barely held together
,
Staining the
stains
that only stayed
because they
could
barely fade away
,
Infringing itself
on the fringes
because they
could barely hold themselves together
;
Because I could barely hold myself together.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Benjamin Combs
I walked into halls filled with jail cells.
Each empty.
They told me that I was the first one here. That I could choose which one I wanted. Then abruptly pushed me before I could ask how many of us they expected.
Stumbling down halls dumbfounded by the concoction of silence and anxiety.
Momentarily thinking. “What am I doing here?” Turning behind.
Met by eyes penetrating the flickering darkness. Voices utter, “Continue.”
Each cell surrounded by blood.
Each bed covered by stained and saturated sheets.
Sheets that are still somehow spread in expectation.
Tightly tucked across the metal framed edges. The few patches of white glistening in their exclusivity.
Come here. Sleep.
There is no choice here.
Running. Back to wherever I came from. Wherever that is.
Panting.
Stopping.
Breathing.
A hand grips my shoulder. “We told you to continue.”
Dragged down dark halls. Walls crumbling.
Muttering. “I don’t want to be here.”
In a succession of blurs,
sitting alone
in emptiness.
Staring at the abyss.
Screaming.
Why me.
Screams that pierce the deafening silence.
7.04 AM.
Morning.
©
its shell was cracked
after it smacked
against the counter top.
its insides were still unbroken,
its yolk still golden.
But I was halfway to the bin.
prepared to discard
with little regard.
S t o p p i n g.
because I started
thinking about how
I was halfway to the bin,
with its insides still unbroken
and its yolk still golden,
because its shell was cracked.
© Hudson Biko
hudson biko 