By Pelonomi Itumeleng
home is a skwata camp
my mother’s house hosts our demons.
parallel paralysis, we look to our walls
They know the secrets.
my mother’s house
a concentration camp,
a safe space for all in need
of holding their demons hostage.
our brother’s feed off our mouths
we are children of the locust analogy.
we are the children of parents
that starve to feed us
children that sleep in the kitchen floor
and bath with sunlight green soap
children that dare to follow dreams
because there is no option
home, a psychiatric ward
a host of our illnesses seen as attention seeking
Home is home nonetheless
even when it kills us