I am no more than a rotting body, borrowing time, buried beneath the flowerbeds of my hometown, carrying a bag of constant melancholy and an unending battle with the curse of yearning, like an infant carrying its own bottle, so heavy that though I soar the sky with wings, I am a flightless bird, dragging my feet, wishing to find destination in the vast open world of broken prayers and uncertainties.

I am a sick woman, pieces and parts, drowning in the fragments of my own head, my mind growing ever cloudier, never getting a chance at happiness, always paying its debt.

We’re born at night; my body is no stranger to the dark. I lie here, No more than my shirt holding me together as the floor and I bond in despair, here I bleed, hoping for a wake never to come.

— Deinn