Blood As Ink. #Poetry

I am torn, swayed in this torrential storm,
I am not a naive human being,
nor a flaunting one.
Yet, holding things, a scenery I see,
scars on hand, bleeding as I hold the rope,
half gripping it tightly, half releasing,
A scene so familiar, so daunting.

What’s more saddening, the grieving heart?
Or the emotion that can’t process the intensity?

I am the only witness to this existential thunderstorm;
My place is flooded with unfinished thoughts,
water sliding down through the walls
as words from long, unfinished letters slip by.

I hold crumbling pieces together,
in memory, in resistance,
crying, shaking, 
howling like a wounded wolf,
clasping pieces, I frantically glue.

I am looking for our green bench,
initials carved with a heart around it,
My body bears the brunt while my heart is in torment,
We have spent six summers and half our lives in this city.

A bleeding heart, I hurt.
A begging heart, I hold.
A mind-numbing situation, I stand alone.
A lover: my heart says, though my hand denies.

I am tiptoeing, but I still can’t feel the gentle, loving hand.
How long should I stay, and how long must I stand?

My blood used as ink,
My name is carved with italic, bold fonts,
on those sharp-edged double-sided knives.
Glitters and gold blinds my lover,
While I stand in a veil
mourning us, mourning myself,
gazing at the thick, black skies, 
My shadow entirely covers!

In defiance.
In anger.
In hope.
In love.

I see myself getting torn apart,
each day, each night,
A rope clenching my body, a little too tight
I am losing myself, and I see my weakening, blurry eyesight

Hoping I would survive,
A love that feels like rope now,
clutching tight each time,
to myself and what remains of me!

~ Sandhya Arya.

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© 2026 Sandhya Arya. All Rights Reserved.
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