The smoke swirls in my room, mingling with the scent of the candle that has melted away. Do you think it is just the smoke, a fleeting trace in the air? You see the papers burning, dismissing them as old, useless remnants, yet do you see the words I burn within myself? The misgivings, the regrets, the anguish hidden behind every flicker of flame. The wax drips, and you tell me my eyes are irritated, but do you see the night I spent weeping, a bliss long dead? You tell me to rest, to close my eyes, but I am so alone in this eerie silence, and my soul cries out in the stillness.
You say my room is dusty, my hair a mess, but do you see the dust that veils the agony within me? Do you see the longing for a lap on which to rest my weary head? The need for someone to caress my hair and lull me to sleep? You push open the curtain, “Let the light enter,” but you don’t see the care I hold inside—so invisible, so luminously dim. You rub your hand across the window, “So much fog on the wickets,” you say. But do you understand the blur of life I live? A person anonymous, a soul lost in the fog of their own thoughts.
You tell me to put on perfume, to look nice, but the sun has set, and darkness surrounds me. How many times have I sunk into this agony, this oppressive weight that won’t release its grip? “No music to play, no tune to know,” you say, but there is a prelude to ecstasy buried deep inside me, locked away for so long. A war rages within, nebulous thoughts swirling in chaos. You call me sluggish, arrogant, sulky, but for just a moment, see the emotions within me—ambiguous, untamed, and raw. The smoke in my room, the candle long melted, is like a hearth within myself, a fire slowly consuming my dreams, fuming them into nothing but ashes.
This black rose I carry—wilted, fragile—speaks only of the darkness I have yet to escape.