Memona Emman
Ode to the Thief of Ink
by Memona Emman
I died. My soul hanged there,
fading into nothingness.
I remember—I was here once,
brittle and pale.
Do not give me reminders
of the in-between;
let it rest.
I lived only seven sweet seconds in my mother’s womb,
a breath between birth and death,
A fleeting echo on the brink of nothing.
There is no light—nor was, nor will ever be.
I live in misery,
where melancholy blooms.
I was born for suffering,
cradled in grief.
No honeyed lie of hope or joy
shall ever sweeten my lips.
Nothing smiles at me. Nothing
ever will.
The only time my lips curved
was when my soul,
fractured and bleeding,
scattered into shadows, a whisper lost to the void.
I had just begun to breathe—
barely, but I had begun.
Then you took from me
the quill and the parchment,
let your voice swallow mine whole.
Now, let me drown in my unsent letters,
let me dissolve in my oceans,
let the thorns at my throat press deeper.
Let me end.
You asked for a
certain kind of forgiveness,
and I gave you all I had—
until there was
nothing left but
the echoes of my mercy.
Now, all that is left of me
is engulfed in fire.
I am rage. I am fierce.
I destroy what silences me.
I end what cages me away
from ink and paper.
And now—
You will die by the thorns of my rose.