By Neha Zafar
I lit the candelabras on either side of my bed to ward off the solace
I had taken from the darkness around me.
My eyes twitched, for it had been long since I had been acquainted with light of any kind.
I am an emotional mess by habit.
I try to seek sanctity in my own mind,
But it cuts wounds deeper than a knife.
I bleed nothing but metaphors and ironies.
I look around me and see dead roses with a note I wrote to myself:
'NEVER GO BACK TO SLUMBER, FOR YOUR HEART WILL BE DEAD.
NONE CAN REVIVE YOU BUT YOUR OWN SELF.'
When the realness of the moment dawned upon me,
I crossed it out and wrote:
'YOU REVIVED, YOU SURVIVED,
YOUR HEART IS AS ALIVE AS YOU ARE.'
By Neha Zafar
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