By Aliza Sheikh
In the darkest of my nights,
a deserted fire sparks within.
My jewel ink black,
like starlight, brings me to me
all the time.
Like the blue curves of ocean waves,
menacingly loud, despairingly sound.
My shadow ink black swirls
on the crisp of my pages.
I see the waves dancing on the shores of my senseless scars.
Demons that creep within,
dreadful gray roses that grow within,
I turn them beautiful.
My charcoal ink black paints diamonds,
and torment has never been more blissful.
In my quiet restless cages, growls echo.
My iron chains dangle, the sole sound heard.
And then, I mix water with the floor dirt.
My filthy ink black sings
hymns of love and freedom.
I kissed all my bonnie toy dolls,
and brushed their pretty silk hair.
But then, the thorns could only ever dream of being the petals.
A false caress to the barren shall bloom tulips all over.
My greedy ink black mourns ever in sorrows absurd.
My sins have wrapped me, suffocating.
Where do I put them down?
For rocks, I carry over my lungs.
My immortal ink black writes me back to life
just to kill again.
My losses, a million stars imbecilic in the empty space.
My smoke ink black knits a mirage,
like prayers of maybe,
star-gazing once again?
I write what none can read.
If read, none can live.
If they can, come—let’s never be friends.
For my dead ink black pushes the mortals away.