It seems facile to incorporate terms like desolation and compassion, life and death, love and deception in impressive ballads and stories. Last night she came to know, her wrecked muscle doesn’t exist inside her left bosom. she’s an old dead carcass slaughtering owns happiness, eradicating hopes and desires.

she isn’t a poet, she’s a prodigy of nothing, carrying everything inside dismal head. Bad faith in love and life isn’t something that makes her scribble, anguish is. It’s been more than 7 years I know her. I always wonder why she’s fine with this terrible mess getting bigger each day. Every morning she wakes up, her brain start sensing abnormalities. I’ve never experienced the tranquillity because she resides in my head. I can’t command her to bog off ’cause she’s the one who has paid the inestimable cost of each experience that I’m living today.

Each day I try to uncoil mysteries behind her creation, I fear to become one of them. Neither she feels like a blessing nor a revolting demon to me. I’ve no answers to her questions, is she a beautiful creation of a mess that was there when I was born or my anxiety has given birth to her.

I can’t afford my sanity to die neither I can’t let her questions puzzling my thoughts.

; bloody chaos.



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