Our love contested by critical judgment of the world.
I’ve faced crucifixion.
Like the two thief’s, I’m damned.
Buried and burnt in eternal fire, coz it seems our fire is wrong.
To hell with what we feel- literally.
Layers of blankets can’t hide how u feel about me.
A boiling kettle let’s off steam.
In the face of judgment it’s YOU who are damned.
Damned to live a lie.
I long since embraced myself.
I’ve walked the journey to “being.”
I’m aware, of the stares, chats and murmurs.
Utters of poison to infect my BEING
and lock me INSIDE myself.
But I refuse to die alive.
I refuse to dance to your tune or theirs,
The irony of a sacrifice.
Alone in the struggle with you…
Is it love, or fear that prevents you to hold my hand when
I most want you too…when
I most shiver, but walk on…
I battered my pride in exchange for BEING.
A price paid by struggle in my efforts to regain that pride.
And as I shiver and long for you to grab and hold my hand
at the sight of their glaring, piercing eyes.
You walk on…
AWAY from me.
TOWARDS their shadow.
As tears fall IN my MIND…I walk on, smile on my face.
Dared not stumble…
My pride is at stake.
The little gained.
It’s not our love… but my love.
And you call yourself a man…
the irony of that.
by Aluta Humbane
© Feb. 2014
Previous by Aluta
2014 Feb.14: “Black South African visual artist lesbian, Zanele Muholi, in a transparent coffin of love and loss”