In the spiral of the monologue of a damaged child, who flirts with death

By Leena Ishrot

"Death is easy, if it doesn't happen inside you
Lots of people are scared to embrace death
But I adore death and swallow grief like capsules
Who knows nothing about crafting a metaphor
But to paint crimson waves of melancholy.

And then I rearrange my mind
Because I know this isn't a dream
That acts as a painkiller to my fractured pieces of unspoken words
Is there anyone who would like to loan some tears when I die?

I wish I could know why I have been built this way
Where there are bounteous of perennial sadness
And walking hand-in-hand with anxiety
This is an ode to myself for waging war against deteriorating mental health.

Life continues even if in these sleepless nights
Or am I just daydreaming in a bed of bougainville
About selfless love
As I have witnessed trauma in my father's eyes for loving me
Does death knock with tender hands?

Home is the first grave
As I have buried piles of grief in my backyard
But do the children know that they're playing in this graveyard and enjoying a picnic in their own cemetery?
Broken breaths and parched lips taught me
To drink coffee with the devil
Has anyone tried to hear the roar of lonely lioness?

As sometimes home isn't four walls and a nice roof
But could be a season of changes in other dimensions.
Now as if my soul is on fire, incarnates and awakening of soul
For hunger of flames and peace
By finding the light outside this long tunnel."