That winter, she bled

this time, so red

next to her fireplace

with a hundred secrets burning

in her mind and the diaries on fire.

The cut across her wrist

in the shape of a crescent moon

blood moon, illuminating the room

and through the open window

curtains fluttered, danced

a funeral dance 

and the cold wind sang 

such a heart writhing lament

that creatures cried and moaned.

Her vision blurred,

a sound, she heard

of someone long forgotten, lost.

Her eyes shut, ears rang,

a gasp for air

and then, silence.

Finally, she was rid

of her misery and pain.

The end was more serene

than life could ever be.

She was in a place

where none could hurt her,

none could find her,

none could touch her,

and none could define her.

Alone, without her own doubts

without her insecurities

without her own self,

without anything of this world’s making,

she was finally a part of something bigger;

bigger than any of her hopes or dreams.

Thanks to death.

-Iflah Laraib