Dozakh

By Aavanthika Praveen

"Can you save me?", she asked

Her eyes were teary with mascara streaks running down her cheeks;

Resembling small, dark rivulets like the river Styx that flows through Dozakh.

It seems as if her entire being was a replica of Dozakh itself,

And that the Styx was flowing everywhere,

Through her, around her, with her.

Suffocated with Death itself, her eyes a bottomless, empty abyss;

Devoid of any emotion.

Except for the light, translucent glaze that artfully veils everything.

If I were to cut her open and ponder over the deepest, darkest parts of her soul, it would be streaked with a violent mix of colours.

Some of the streaks would be a violent shade of red,

resembling all the pent-up anger, waiting to be set free,

like a predator waiting for its salvation from hunger.

Some parts would be grey, with a blue hue,

Mimicking all the empty, barren sadness she finds so addicting.

The melancholic misery she caused upon herself.

The one she carries with her everywhere.

Other parts are pink,

Sprinkled here and there,

Drowning with the black and crimson stripes, slowly ebbing away.

Nonetheless, the pink exists,

Rearing its head out, afraid it might get snuffed out.

The pink lies there, as lonely as ever.

She does not embrace the pink as much as she does with the glaucous streams.

The pink lays there still, yearning for her embrace.

By Aavanthika Praveen