The Visage of Thought: Part 3

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           The Hand Helps Hold Up My Smile

I need help holding up this smile. On most days I can’t do it by myself. These fingers drill into my face and force this façade of happiness on me. My fragility is no foe to my femme. I need to forget that inside I am broke. My teeth are white, standing in a curved line in this faux frame.

I clench my teeth , I can’t seem to unshackle them from my jaws because every time I try the world barricades. How do I smile amidst all this? Mommy can’t smile, she has fists running into her face. My sister can’t smile her face is pinned down to the ground, men barge through her door and steal her sex until all her blood pours. My brother can’t smile: the police are hungry for his flesh. The colour red ravages my street.

Clean out all this cold and corruption, maybe then my smile won’t be disrupted.

Hand me back my life, I need to emancipate my smile.

Prose by  Kea Mooka

Photo by Sameera Soorjee Photography

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