Journal

“It was a mistake," you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you.” David Levithan I will forever be as pure as white virgin fibres, in your onyx field of ravens. When the star-crossed silhouette of bleeding ink, ricochets like vindictive arrows, within your hollow walls, quenched with muted echoes, I am reminded of your ebony eyes, cradled under black decomposing flesh. I shove my misunderstood identity into a pocket journal, embalmed with a fragrance of peace lilies and rhapsodical prose, amidst doleful dusks painted with past mistakes hidden beneath narratives of sinful tangerine nights. But, remember that your fallacious name is an erased footnote in the history of relentless runes. My tormented tongue has become immune to your false screams. There is no need for close-fisted fingers to flip through pages, of the story I left behind, as visions of venomous verses cremate into ashes in my mind- as mere memories of monologues from ice cold monsoons, which don’t define me. I’ve sculpted fragile paper boats and watched them ferry my demons, floating on daisies in a ravishing rivulet of truth and tranquility, whilst you chase impassioned imprints within chapters written in patterns of insincere phrases. I am a survivor of your storm, drawing dreams in drowsy darkness, blooming my amethyst artistry, which vibrantly beats to burgundy evolutions of a blossoming flower, who's scent you will never savor. My petals may be fragile, but I refuse to remain prisoned in toxic traits of a weathered wildflower - I only attract majestic butterflies.