The Curve of Your Glass

By Vanshika Gupta

I brought you roses-

not for their sweetness,

but for how you leaned

towards them,

as if they carried secrets

only you knew.

You never touched them,

only stared-

long enough I wondered

if I could keep my silence

the way they held stillness.

So I learned to bite down

on the thorns,

let their spines dig deep

into my bones,

while petals unfurled

slowly along my ribs-

pressing myself

into the curve

of your glass.

You asked if the vase was new.

You told me I was beautiful.

And I-

I cherished the way

your eyes found me.

So I kept bringing you more-

rose after rose-

each stem heavier than the last,

their thorns tracing shadows

down my wrists.

Still, I carried them to you-

until my hands went hollow,

my fingers forgot how to close,

the bouquet slipped-

red thinning, collapsing

into the waiting glass.

You asked why I stopped,

why the air no longer

smells sweet-

not knowing

they were never just flowers,

but the parts I had left-

quivering,

quiet, at your door.

Now the vase waits,

its mouth open-

roses withered into husks.

I peel them, slow and deliberate,

devouring every petal

against my tongue.

They melt without protest,

a blaze pooling restless in my lungs-

until the last one remains,

and even the room

forgets to breathe.

By Vanshika Gupta