When I talk of home,
home is a beautiful girl
that has lost all her dignity.

I step in this cold chamber,
my feet kissing the ground
in a tip toe.

I enter this lonely room
like a discarded brick
standing in the vastness
of the rough walls—

walls that for long
pitched my skin off
to feed the raw hunger
of a fatherly figure.

The chemical smell of tepatine
filled the air.
A fresh scar
splints open
from the nostrils
to the gut.

I hear them whisper
in chaos,
the walls shouting
to break the silences
of a young girl
tore into two parts
like a rift Valley.

Yet her story dwells
under the new paint
cast in the emptiness
of the room.

Summer never pays a visit here
Coldness is a lover
I would chance to forget,
put to the bin
and scream,

“Give us a voice… , “

For many of the stifled voices
linger behind the walls
observing my helplessness—
Our helplessness.

I always try so hard
to smile in prison,
look at the sky
and wish myself away
as a bird.

I sit in the corner
trying to grab warmth,
an ember to lift my energy
to a heated engine level
and spit truth
to the predators
eating skirts
for lunch
and supper.

The silence engulfs
my fragile heart
once more.

The chamber turns
super cold
that even winter
can’t compete here.

I stand naked
in the center,
raise my hands
to the sky
for clouds to rescue me
from this torment
that pitches my heart
to shreds—

a permanent scar
painted deep
within my soul
of the many silences
gone unnoticed
in the vastness
of this solitary world.

Is this the absurdity
of a life
devoid of humanity?

– Harlord Ankwasa