The pot and I, funny how our lives can be likened to things that have no life, things we overlook, in this case ‘the pot’. How? You ask. I used to be shiny, much like the Tower aluminium pot my mother purchased, always a delight to see and be used because I looked clean on the outside even after several uses, but many years have come and gone. Now I’m ugly inside and out.
Now I’m not just a pot but an ugly pot on fire,dented and ready to be thrown away. You still wonder why I chose this pot as the object of this simile, Its because the only thing my eyes are fixed on as I lay here being raped by this man I once loved is the pot on fire…the pot on fire much like me as I feel fire between my thighs from this drunken man.
Why I’m still with him? The fear of being put to shame or worse,being assassinated by his family. I bear this pain because its my first step to victory. Just like that pot, slow and deadly within me as I’ve endured this for a little less than a decade. I serve his meal from the pot, the pot much like me harmless when seen but deadly when tasted…and he eats his last meal.
I sit on the floor I was raped on and I’m left with the pot, the pot much like me now empty of all anger and pain, ready to be thrown away.