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Running

[This piece contains subtle content on suicide and suicidal ideations. You may stop reading now for the sake of your

mental health.]


your soul left on a Sunday evening,

with everything that made this family sane.

father refused to accept it,

that his favourite son // found solace on a tree neck,

that eternal peace // can sometimes be found on a rope,

that all you need to do is push the stool away from your feet,

and let life meanders out of your body before dawn.


I tell lies. // I lied that I never knew what went wrong,

why your body became a house for broken dreams,

and your soul // a harbour for demons like human flaws.


I saw your letters tucked away under the bed,

the ones you wrote to Aduo but never mailed.

now I understand why you tuck death under your tongue,

and choose to let your body like dried leaf dangle from a tree.


this morning, I did not bother to go for Mass.

you said He doesn't hear prayers // the ones from boys like us,

father said it is unnatural to love this way,

and that we choose doom like those from the past.


I am waiting for when he’d come back on his bicycle,

I am standing right in front of the mirror in your room,

but I see your soul settling in my body,

I won't want mother to meet me like this,

or come fetch my body hanged from the Udala tree.


so on a paper i write these painful words before running

“gone papa // for we are all birds and some of us have broken wings

tell mama to lock her doors // this boy likes boys and he’s gone to find love."


Bio:

Ololade Edun is a contemporary creative, a microbiologist, and a medical student. He writes

experimental things and his works have appeared, or are forthcoming in Kalahari Review,

Parousia, The Shallow Tales Review, Pawners Papers, The Scribe Post, Voice Lux Journal, &

elsewhere.

When he is not writing, Ololade is either in the laboratory culturing microbes or drowning in

Indian/Pakistani playback songs. He tweets beautiful things @OloladeWrites.

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