A small part of me dies at the end of each sentence.
Every period constructs my personal burning ghat, each coma suffocates an ember of my existence.
This perpetual death is also the story of my life and worth dying for.
Worth writing for.
Remnants of myself are sprinkled among the unread paragraphs, the run-on sentences, and the obliterated adjectives.
The poems that rambled in my mind and never made it into form, meet the unjust expression of non-expression.
Yet, a hurricane of life blows inside of me.
In moments of calm, it feels, I feel, barely palpable—like being softly kissed by stardust at twilight.
I keep writing.
I keep dying.
I keep living.