As I speak these words, may the dead borrow my tongue and tell their stories from the grave. I no longer lust to lie by them. I want to live and live loudly— let my voice linger as I leave, if not from my tired throat, than from the ink of my pen. I may be rotting but my words are immortal.

I am alive.

If the sun can shine so shamelessly, then so should I. And I, as she, shan’t somber to save your eye.

I am blinding.

A rose, draped in her dainty dress, can make a man bleed— thorns sharp beneath her scarlet skirt tail, his fingertips dripping to match it.

I am brutal.

I have seen the sea swallow strangers whole—suffocate them beneath her shimmering surface. She roars. She rages. She’s rough. And if she can reap her revenge with her gentle waters rippling with sapphire; if she can balance anger and allure, then so can I. Her grace is violent—her beauty fatal.

I am soft, but I am rageful. I am calm, but I burn with hellfire beneath my skin. I am silent, but my throat is raw—my voice tearing it red, ripping its way to freedom.