all that I am

pen bleeding ink, ink bleeding me, I scribble myself into reality

is it real if it’s me, or is it me if it’s real? what do I know about how to act, how to feel?

what I’ve done doesn’t count as what I do; I am more than the stories I’ve been through

a double-edged sword — letting go of the bad is letting go of the good, letting go of all I had and if I had to let go, how to get going, I wouldn’t know

how do you trade everything for emptiness? how do you turn off the light and embrace abyss?

is it cold in here, or is it just me? my insides or this room: what’s empty? what I’ve done doesn’t count as what I do; I am more than the stories I’ve been through

yesterday is gone but its shadow lingers... tracing constellations with blue fingers, the veins beneath still carry blood — crimson ink for a flower bud

scrawled in its roots, lessons to grow; petals locked by thorns, innocence, a dim glow

what I do doesn’t count against what I’ve done; I am more than the stories I’ve just begun

| Tasbiha Rahman