I wake once more to adorn my world in red—red like the blood of slaughtered desires. My screams, too loud to be ignored, will betray me, but there will be no more tears. Instead, I set them ablaze, letting them burn away the remnants of my hope.
Hope quiets, like a weary sigh escaping from a page of forgotten words. The crimson pen, stained with the ink of gore, writes a story I don’t want to read. Through withered veins, I witness life—if my soul could only breathe again, like it once did.
Dead strikers, sad queens, games won and lost, every ladder a labyrinth leading to snakes. I am like a coin tossed in the fickle game of love, a dice thrown in desperation, a hunted card that slips through fingers, only to vanish.
The night stabs at my eyes, the rain pinches the corpse of my spirit. My heart is restless—its rhythm a symphony of smoke and ashes. A blizzard of thought swirls within me, a tempest I cannot escape. Pain’s cold arms hold me tight, securing me in its relentless embrace.
Prayers become razors, promises nothing but stains. Who I kill inside me, you kill within yourself—and in the process, you erase all the signs of love and life. My statue of hope surrenders, crumbles to dust. It dies again, just like the love that once lived within me.
I write no love song; there are no chords to play, no melody to compose. Hanging on to the last whisper of death’s breath, I sentence myself to die again—lost in the chaos of my own mind.