Battered

By Lee Letsogile

My body is not mine.
I’m clay and he’s a potter,
Bending only to his touch.
On some days he lovingly holds me,
Like a flower in his calloused hands.
On most days I’m an autumn leaf crackling under his firm grip,
He sews me with half baked promises, and feeds me apologies that pile up on my throat
And when his lips refuse to form the word sorry
I chew back the apologies like a ruminant.
When did I become an empty house
That echoes only his voice?
“He loves me,”
“He loves me not.”
I will sing till I strip naked the flowers of our love
Even in my grave.

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Lee Letsogile is an accountant by profession and a writer by heart. Writing has become second skin to her as she uses it to make sense of the world and her emotions. She is passionate about mentoring young kids and has been a part of a team of tutors that focused on underprivileged children. She believes in the small joys of reading, creating, naps, and chocolate. Her work has found a home in Woven with a Brown Thread, edited by Upile Chisala, and on the SunriseMoment Blog.