I live in the ashtray
In the hours of darkness, I couldn’t sing
And the days when I fumble with the blade
Unable to write a thing.
I paint my nails black
And of my blood, I take a sip
And it burns my throat
While it touches my lips.
I write with white ink on white paper
And every word is a catastrophe
I don’t cry over them
’cause these words can’t make a melody.
I drop all the perfumes on the floor
And inhale its symphony
And touch the broken glass with bare hands
Because tonight they are my company.
The green moss grows on my skin
While I sleep naked on the floor
I drown in my own water
And stay dead without much ado.
Image Source –> Google.
By Preksha, India