Through the translucency of a flower bed

we make our own hellfire
such indecency,
to ask then, when must the burn suffice?
at least, let this be the end?

but the scorching ceases not
it taunts and it climbs,
it stays indifferent.

can I not unmake it?
can I not, for once, be pardoned?
for what I have done, for whatever I have not
for this fever, this malady
this room with no windows,
stale breath per cubic metre
of stagnant inefficiency.
these questions, this stubbornness
I am here, I exist, I am screaming
look at me!
I am here, I exist.
For something?

no, I am the old cellophane.
“you can look right through me”
can I not make myself in the image
that cannot form?
can I not, uh,
Can I?

but the scorching ceases not.

My name is Humaira. I am from Delhi, India. A recent medical graduate about to start my professional career. Though my field of work is medicine, poetry has always been deeply ingrained in my family (gratitude to my late father to have introduced us to it). I write mostly about philosophical musings (attributed to what little I understand of philosophy), heartbreak, and existential nuances. My username on Instagram is trifectaofloss.

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