Verdant

By Arbia Enam

The flowers grew at the back of my head.

Curling down to my throat, 

strangling me to death.

Weeds covered my ribcage, 

slowly seeping into my lungs.

Like the ink leaked on an empty page 

wet with fuel burns.

Bones crushed under 

the weight of my own delusion.

Just a mirage of peace, 

stitched together by the filth — my mind.

The stems pricked my skin out 

tearing it into layers of sheet, 

binding it with sprouts.

The thorns made up the crown.

Poking my head, 

bleeding my eyes out.

Soon my grave blossomed with them.

The greenery stitched with my body, 

in fine hem.

It made me who.

I could never become.

A vivid in that dark hue, 

in which the petals hung.

And, who am I to question the nature?

A living killed a living — 

one a soul, one a creature.

By Arbia Enam