I’d rather wilt out like a rose
Than overstay my welcome.
Fade into winds that whisper of ends.
I’d rather mirth sullen, than bask hope.
The sun’s gaze quite harsh, I’d sit out in the moon
With cold flailing around me, with solace not gloom.
I’d rather go with a quill in hands, fingertips gone blue.
I’d break and bleed, rather than being cracked and then glued.
Shards of me, I pick each day
A beautiful broken vase they form
Twas I who scattered them in the first place
Hoping that they would just drown.
My conscience knows, all these dark
bleak, dreadful, gothic thoughts.
It tugs at my nerves, and I assure it
I’m no performer and they’re all mere thoughts.
I’d rather not have happy endings
Nor would I wish to die laughing.
I’d rather slip out this mortal whim with
the bare touch of my lover’s lips.
Ansuia Kaul is a 16-year-old who is rather attached to death and morbid phenomena. She admires mythology and if she were a goddess, she’d bequeath herself Eris with a smidge of Hela.
Featured image credit: Pariplab Chakraborty