By Florence Rwengabo & Rogers Wanambwa


I hear it when you speak.
Your voice trembles with your effort to make a sound.
As you clear your throat it lingers still.

I see it when you look at me.
I can almost see you begging me to not take you there.
Those teary clouds in your eyes as you blink your strength into existence tell me that there is more than a spake in them.

You have been wrecked.
Pieces of you spilt all over, your every effort to put them together seems like a lifetime chore.
You have given yourself away so much for so long you are almost bare.

I know you have wandered a while, but I am here now.
What do you say we make up for lost time?
How about you rest your hands in mine, lean on my feeble shoulders until your voice mends back to verbal strength and your eyes restore their beautiful brown clarity?

We shall dust these pieces at your pace, fit them back lovingly until you can look back in the mirror and recognize what you see.

Until then, we will not stop.
Because this is no longer just your wreckage but mine too.


She tells me all this and I really want that,
In fact, I need it. I need everything she promises me!
But the demons, those demons of old.
They don’t allow me to move past them.
To see a future where I am happy for once.
Perhaps if I had seen her before all this happened.
Before I was broken beyond repair.

But I really love the promise of better.
Maybe I really should give it a chance,
Give her a chance.
Maybe I should accept to be on the receiving end this time.

After all, everyone deserves a go at Happy.
I know she deserves happy too.
We can mend ourselves back to a happy place,
If we gave it a chance.
If we gave ourselves a chance,
We can make it.
We can Mend Us.

Florence resides here where she delivers such timeless poems. Check her out.

6 Replies to “MENDING US.”

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