#sharloola

[sharloola]

practicing my descriptive writing by describing an autumn day in my london

[bear-eli]

Woman In The Emergency Room.m4a

Woman In The Emergency Room by @sharloola —decided to act out the poem because I loved it so much. As a feminine-presenting person with EDS, this is an experience I relate to all too well.

[sharloola]

when i find the loch ness monster first

i will beg her not to mistake their bared teeth for smiles. i will tell her that they will cheer at the sight of her naked body but she mustn’t mistake that for care. i will warn her that the water will marble the hunger in their eyes and weapons in their hands. she will ask me why hunger is a bad thing. she has never met anyone who wants to touch her so badly. she will ask me if being consumed is warmer than being alone. and when night falls she will swim up to the surface and see the moon for the last time. i will explain that metal is cold and unforgiving on skin. i will say that they want to rip her apart, display her flesh and bone around the world, lock her away for their own amusement. she will tell me there are worse fates than death. i will tell her it isn’t death i am fearing— it’s the stealing that will hurt most. she will laugh and say she has nothing more than this body for them to take. she will ask me what use is it being alive if she is never held. i will learn there is no such thing as crying underwater as i taste the salt and her hope will finally start to make sense. i will tell her monster means beautiful one. the creature who has never wept will ask me to tell her about weapons with wonder in her eyes. so i will tell her about the men who are coming and she will go to them anyway. i will ask the moon for forgiveness as my lungs fill with water.

s.o.

[sharloola]

if god is anything like my grandparents, i think i’ll be okay.

[sharloola]

ODE TO THE SALON (BLUE MAGIC)

Washed, stretched, no oils— all plans cancelled for today. 

You trek to auntie in old trackies and a beanie with your survival kit: 

Earphones and snacks shoved into a bag,

Next to 4 packs of 1b and clear gloss.

The marketplace is only a skeleton of itself when you arrive,

You pass by crates of fresh fruit and fake fendi as the streets pulse to life.

The vendors nod at you as they chat in the frosty morning glow 

and you smile back, praying you don’t run into someone you know.

Auntie’s late (but that goes without saying). 

You’re seated at her altar, neck braced, playlist loaded.

She turns moses, parting 4c with a rat tail comb 

And your open palms face the sky with synthetic hair laced between your fingers.

The small girl next to you marvels at how you stay x-pressionless throughout.

She has not yet learned to swallow pain so yelps and cries, 

Envying her brothers who have turned the shop floor into a wrestling ring.

They roll around on a sea of knotted hair, in dishevelled uniforms and overgrown taper fades.

Their mother tries to scold them for half an hour before giving up, 

Instead focusing on the tv as her red-black hair is layered and smoothed with molten tongs.

Tendrils of smoke are released with each sizzle and clink,

Curling between her and the pixelated faces of nollywood on the screen.

The smell of burning is a comfort to you now,

Child embraced by the warmth of a village who sets itself alight.

Even fire can be a kindness when welcomed, 

She heats hair masks under plastic bags and sears coils straight when asked. 

Someone is playing music from home and it rings out tinny from an old samsung.

Lingala, yoruba, patois— bodies sway to the beats regardless.

Your hips are all polyglot in rhythm, 

And somehow the crying baby drifts off to this and the sound of a blow dryer.

Auntie says you’re tall and quiet, like her daughter back home.

You realise then why her hands are so tender on your head 

And wonder if she always looks for her babies in the scalps of strangers, 

Sees a mirage of them in oil flecked reflections as her bones twist coarse tresses day after day. 

The blue magic your own mother cast when you were small still lingers.

You notice the teenage boy getting cornrows can’t understand the sorcery in this place.

He stares at the floor as his head is pulled and frowns at all the shouting, 

Unburnt ears alien to these sharp incantations of love.

You were the same when first you sat in the chair, 

Milk teeth of a wide tooth comb and nintendo to keep you busy.

You flinched at the raised voices, gazing at girls on pretty n silky boxes,

Secretly hoping pink lotion might make you look like them.

You’d sit patiently by the nail bar as your mum retouched, 

Nose crinkled at the chemicals while she assured you she’d be done soon. 

Sweet fried dumplings and curry goat from next door were your reward and sometimes, 

The man selling watered down perfume would spritz the air just to humour you.

Your mum always announced if something hurt her,

And swatted the acrylic capped fingers from her head like mosquitos.

You used to wonder if your voice would grow in after your big teeth did, 

But you still hold your tongue when pain comes from hands that could love you. 

Now, the cacophony of the salon is a familiar melody and you know the choreography. 

Eyes plié when the husband-landlord walks in heavy and italic, 

Lowering all chatter to a murmur as he demands cash from his wife.

She hands it over with a painted smile and he slams the door on his way out.

The stony interlude is short-lived because we practise alchemy through laughter here:

Auntie makes a quip about his bad breath and tension surrenders to joy.

In this coven, mens anger is snuffed out like flyaways under clouds of mousse,

Rendered lifeless by protection runes hidden in the creases of weathered palms.

The women swap stories over your head in kintsugi english, 

Kissing teeth and gesturing wildly with dollops of shine ‘n jam on the back of their hands. 

You understand now that wisdom is being sewn in as well as tracks,

And tuck their fables behind your ear for times yet to come like seeds in damp ground.

Finally, when the sun has melted to dusk, the water is set to boil. 

You are placed under the dryer and stretch out your stiff fingers.

Auntie swoops your baby hairs after the sweet olive spray,

And warns you that it’s berry cold outside as you hug.

You leave: braids dripping, scalp sore, 

Kink in your neck and pep in step.

At school, your friends would marvel as you showed off the clean parts, 

While the other kids asked to pull and prod.

For the next two weeks, you’ll be vigilant with the scarf at night

And not think about the next style until new growth turns the knotless to a blur.

A few months from now, the man in the hair shop will follow you down aisles

And you’ll call up auntie again to hear her psalm, words a mosaic with veins of gold: 

I’m fine. How’s mummy? 

(I love you)

Which hair you want? 

(I love you)

Send picture. 

(I love you)

You have the hair? 

(I love you)

Ok, come 9. 

s.o.

[sharloola]

False Gods

[sharloola]

nakasero, kampala. feb 24

[sharloola]

DIARY OF AN EX-CATHOLIC GIRL i grew up counting minutes on rosaries, waiting for lunch time to arrive. bowing my head and closing my eyes pretending that darkness was my god because that’s what i thought prayer was; being quiet and hoping someone noticed you were in pain. i couldn’t tell the difference between fiction and faith. i didn’t find my myself in stories about whores who were saved by a man and fathers who didn’t realise they were killing their sons. i found myself in classroom bookshelves, in stories that were too good to be true. where children found magic and their mothers would believe them. i liked holding the bible though, with its’ pages so thin words pushed through 3 verses too early, like they were desperate to be believed. in the confessional i’m worried the priest can hear my heart racing through the wood. he asks me what i’d like to confess and i think about how my auntie said in hell they burn you alive starting from your fingertips until you are gone, then restart time to hurt you all over again. i wonder if hating yourself is a sin, but i’m only six so i just say that i was mean to my brothers, and am told to atone with some self-reflection and hail marys. it’s not that i don’t want to be saved. maybe it would be nice, to have a man in your head who promises you paradise. holds your hand when you’re scared, tells you to keep quiet even you are crying and want to say no because this is what he has planned for you, this is your path. a man who will reward you for giving yourself to him with no questions asked. i don’t know, maybe that’s love. maybe god is a poet, who tried to write the greatest sonnet known to man, but forgot to define love before he started— imagine being an accidental god. how do you tell the people that worship you that you didn’t know what you were doing? that every time they call you father it feels like a thorn in your heart. that you miss your baby boy, who they tortured and then thanked you for. maybe god is a sinner, trying to absolve himself of pain and sorrow through people whose hearts are so full of love they will give it to someone who isn’t there. make the shape of someone’s deathbed on their heads hearts and shoulders, and ask for strength.

s.o.