These cancer ads follow me like targets.
Spare a thought for the mother who didn’t survive,
Couldn’t watch her daughter thrive.
It was just before a film about an elite gambling ring,
Did you know that poker is a game of skill?
And even though I’ve had almost three years to perfect
Today I failed.
Walked out of that cinema dizzy,
Blasted music through earphones,
Hoping to drum out
In that moment, I could’ve outrun Usain Bolt himself,
Danced circles around Fifi Abdo.
I could’ve loaded, shot, and reloaded again
At every God,
With no training.
Watched in satisfaction as I watched your
And Eve herself,
Bleed to death.
And when I think of her,
With a prayer on my lips.
I called him.
The real him.
The him that blasphemes with logic
The him that blasphemes with evidence.
The him that blasphemes with experience.
Have you ever heard atheists comfort one another?
Few conversations occur as sincerely.
Hanger Lane station therapy session,
Courtesy of WhatsApp,
Sponsored by the greatest love story ever told.
I called my Mohammed.
Mohammed the Atheist.
He told me I was flesh and blood.
He told me it was okay to cry.
He spoke to me logically and lovingly.
He understood that with me,
It’s not enough to say ‘Mimo, it’ll be okay!’
I need a well thought out,
Of how to process
And even though I couldn’t see him,
I saw his tender eyes,
Felt him kiss my hand,
Saw his hands move expressively as he explained to me,
You didn’t know.
It was your defence mechanism,
I’ve seen multiple cases of shock and denial before.
And when I spoke guilt,
How didn’t I know that she was dying?
How didn’t I see?
Sign from one end of the corridor to the other in bold:
Guilt shouldn’t even equate.
Your mind was protecting itself.
Your love for her couldn’t compute.
And he didn’t pepper his conversations with
Because this man knows me.
And though it feels like these cancer ads follow me,
I know that in moments where I feel weak,
I can call my Mohammed,
And you can listen to