Cutting my wounds open

Crimson poetry and crucifixion

Emily Dickinson probably found a little credence
Explaining death to laymen
How much burden do we want to put on immortality?
When death is literally our bestie

It took me three and a half years
To break through this evil-eyed curse
Facing the destiny of death is very much rooted in birth

Hate to write this crimson poetry
With my blood in the ink pot
And the feathers of my broken wings
Working as a quil
As I soft launch my suicide note

Perhaps, I whelved my voice
So searching the shelves after my demise
Won't help
Death is literally my BFF
That letter never had any physical evidence
Stayed in my cerebrum
At my funeral, everyone would stay silent at the podium
And I'd enjoy being the guest at my own crucifixion

My parents would give me anything to bribe me with
But man, I haven't properly hugged my father yet
Could never give him the flowers he always wanted
And now death is my BFF
I can't do anything but let his name be my middle name
So everyone knows how much I love him when they see my grave

The debilitating effects of this life killed me
Recapitulating each threat in my eulogy
Would probably serve me some justice
Because I'm tired of guarding my afterlife self from my past life nemesis

Won't matter if they annexed that town
Anyway, I belong to the cemetery
Where the monuments be my muse and I write crimson poetry

Seems like I've died
Yet I feel like my consciousness is alive
This child sleeps in a coffin, not a crib
This child is disparate from the other kids
Would you decorate my dead body and light half-used jar candles
I'm not being melodramatic
I'm just saying that death is now my BFF

I've been raised by fairytales and fiction
I'll never taste the wine I'll probably die young
Drinking that self-made poison
It'll be all okay, I just want to be a guest at my crucifixion

written by vikshar varma (on 22nd november 2022)