NO ROOM HERE

I. Feel. Bad.

Last night, Kofi Asamoah asked me to marry him; and I said no.

Last week, Kofi Asamoah took me shopping and now my wardrobe is a dam, bursting with colourful waterfalls.

Last month, Kofi Asamoah drew a kiss on my lips, while he entrenched a key into my sweaty palm.
And now my arms jiggle and my stomach bulges with milky flesh, afterall, I hardly walk anymore.


Last year, Kofi Asamoah carried me in his arms, as his molten fingers brushed at the skin beneath my rear cheeks. I clung to his shiny, melting neck and tossed my head backwards, in typical girlish delight.
Then he kissed my forehead and my eyes and my nose and my hair, as we entered the foryer of the duplex. Then we explored each other on a blanket on the cold kitchen floor.

Last year, Last month, Last week;
Kofi Asamoah was here.
With me. Loving me. Spoiling me...

I. Feel. Bad.
Last night Kofi Asamoah asked me to marry him; and I said no.

Because there is no room here;
Not in my head
Not in my heart
Not in my soul
Not in my life...