Sobrevivencia

Photo by Bhoomi

Sobrevivencia | Ishita Tiwari

Every dawn, every dusk

I lay down in my bed,

Tossing another quill away,

As Ink stains my sheets 

The words from my diary bleed

The rose tinted sheets turning blue

With the wound of my being

They said words give you purpose

They make you immortal, eternal

But I just turn hollow and hollow

What good is a story

when the writer disappears between the lines?

I write and write, craving my refuge

but what do you do when even your refuge crumbles?

Where do you run to

when the doors of home close,

and silence refuses to take you in?

I burn myself into metaphors

so I could mean something

but what happens

when even my words betray me?

What happens when even the ink forgets my name?

And perhaps this is what it means to fade..

To become the pause between unfinished lines 

The hush after a sentence

For which nobody stays long enough to read,

Nobody stays long enough to know.

Nobody…