Timothy

I was transported into the obscure world of melodies and rhymes, of scales and keys and baritones. Music gripped me but kept his distance because access to his planet was by invitation only. I barged my way in with discord and off notes because I wanted to learn, to listen, to be heard. I saw him, he played me, and he was no longer a closed vault; he was melody, rhyme, scales, keys, baritones and my best friend.

Evergreen

I thought I could have been a flower until I realised I was not that delicate. My roots were too thick and they sunk too deep into the ground. I had scars that the stems of a petunia could not carry so I decided I was an Evergreen. I am shade for the weary woman carrying her child on her back. I bear my own fruit in and out of season and I don't look at other trees with envy, instead I rejoice because my creator made me beautiful with arms as branches to embrace love and drink deep of it. I stand tall and I fear nothing, I am who I am. Evergreen.

My body the buffet

The table is set with fine china and the whitest linen. Candles flicker to the soft tones drowned out by the voices of the men queuing and waiting to be seated. Men from distant islands with skin that had affairs with the sun, men with top hats and accents, men old and young, yellow and brown wait to be fed. Their hunger knows no segregation. Some came to be served and some would rather serve themselves depending on how much they spent to eat. The sign at the door informed them; "ALL YOU CAN EAT" and I am on the menu. They grope at legs, thighs, breasts and neck devouring what their stomachs can contain. Some leave a tip as they exit, some replace their wedding bands and wipe the corners of their mouths to remove any traces of eating away from home, others linger hoping to get another round but leave as they are informed that service has stopped. The table that was once so elegant looks like a warzone. There are half-chewed bones and traces of skin and flesh here and there and there are no traces of what had been served. Not long after the table is cleared and the bones are discarded do the vultures come. Lacking manner and decorum they gnaw at whatever they find and chew at the remnants of the menu. They too want a taste but they don't care to pay so they eat and eat and scrap and spit and fly away half satisfied. I barely recognise myself in the crumbs and the carnage, the bones that escaped consumption remain there amongst the garbage and dry up... I am left wondering, "can these dry bones live again?"

Nicole-Rose