My beautiful suicide

I mistook words
For bandages
That I tried to
Plaster my wounds with

I mistook colors
For stitches
That I tried to
Cover my slits with

I mistook music
For medicine
That would cure
my heart

But the red
Dripping down
My fingers
Is not paint

The rope
Around my neck
Is not made out of
Enchanting stories

And when I’m
It’s not into a
Melodious harmony

For as I
Emptied myself
In Art; Love
I remained
Utterly broken
And the holes in
My soul

– Ushna Shoaib (


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