He told me to die without even knowing what it was to be alive

I bled through paper after paper. I wrote poems after poems after poems with the quill clenched in my hands acting as another finger.

The quill became another part of me.

The only part of me which connected me to this world I couldn't call mine. The only part of me which hung desperately to the reality,

Hoping everything,

Hoping _something_ would make sense.

I wrote and wrote and wrote till the point I was no longer able to distinguish the ink from my own blood. And yet, I was able to feel nothing.

I felt nothing at all.

Like a black hole absorbing all that shines, the paper soaked through all my tears and left me dry. Drier than a dying flame.

All I asked was to love and to be loved. And god decided it was too much for me to ask.

The generous god who gifted the oceans and mountains and stars decided that it was where he would draw the line.

In the end, he did not give me love.

He did not give me love.

He did not give me life.

He gave me a breath, a barely beating heart and a broken soul and told me to survive. To survive until my last breath.

He told me to die without even knowing what it was to be alive

.