Of Beauty

My muse carves her veins into this graffiti of henna;

her eyes blind to the beauty she holds,

shredded skin is only an excuse for me to-

hold on to the feeling of her in my bones.

She spills tears easier than the skies,

pain searing through every fibre of her being,

why then, does she fight? Why does she cry

my name into a void, greedy to drown herself

in profanities?

Her lips are softer than mercury in my blood

this poison promises freedom over exile,

she kisses my neck leaving red marks

each a promise of death’s sweet release.

Humble and meek. Soft and sweet.

Perfect porcelain, shy and weak.

A doll — no — a human being;

bent under the will of some god

that she doesn’t believe in.

“Love destroys,” she had whispered,

“it burns.” Did she find comfort in the

beauty that destruction sought? Or were

we the last heap of sand thrown at

the burning building in hopes of salvation?

What a shame, that to feel her beauty,

I’d have to set her in flames.

-Barnika Guha

1st year, PyEE