Chibuzor Bonaventure

Healing

The tragic part of healing is babysitting it. 

You stay alone webbed into the routine of nursing and cuddling red patches of wounds.

Like a spider’s prey, you are caught sighing away the possibilities of every adventure that

Those sticky silks of chains cocoon you from.

Die, you must to live again— a realization that sinks in like the pointed end of a knife. 

And should any god save you in the end

Be sure you will only get caught up by the whirling flies allured to your breathing carcass

So, die you must!