Murderer
I held a wilting flower in my hand
as it told me how I inspired it to die;
how my words resonated with its symphony of pain
and echoed out a toxic lullaby
I held the wilting flower in my hand
with a lost voice and helpless eyes
The roots were dry and I pleaded for life
But the petals withered,
Inspired to die.
I held a dead flower in my hand
as its thorns dug deep and scars ran wide
My hands, stained with red
Still reeked of shame,
but the blood that trickled, wasn’t mine.
Copyright © Vaishnavi Nandakumar | Year Posted 2020
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