A Writer
Every night I see a breathing corpse,
sitting silently, piercing fingers in her own wounds.
Accompanied by silence and loneliness,
she immortalises deads in her lullabies and croons.
Then she dips her fingers in blue pot of hope,
and traces constellations of scars on her naked skin.
She barely moves her lips and tongue,
but touches souls through quill dancing on her finger tips.
People serve her love garnished with lies,
and stab knife in the middle to savour the taste of eternity.
When her wounds scream and cry at night,
she sings forever and rubs salt on them of memories.
She puts rags and wears scent of nostalgia,
polishes fantasies and dreams on the pupils of her eyes.
She sharps her quill and dips it in her blood,
then sets fire on paper between her single smile and sigh.
She is afraid of comfort and healing,
as she chooses bleeding over weeping through eyes.
She chokes herself with warm scarf dipped in past,
because a writer takes birth only when a human dies.
-Ananya