Crimson Letters

By Nikhil Singh

Didn't realise it was the craving for love and attention,

Until very recently, that inspired me to pen my thoughts,

And selectively bare parts of my heart out to total strangers,

To hear accolades that’d rejuvenate my rots.

Oh, when they admired me — it was affection,

When they smiled at me — it was love,

That quenched my thirst for a deeper connection,

for a while until I remembered that I had no one.

The pain would subside when they liked me,

Life felt less desolate when they called me extraordinary,

This would always take my mind off how worthless I was,

And turned me into a shining, bright thing of gold,

Otherworldly.

And so, I'd write again, cause it didn't matter anymore,

If the emptiness and loneliness haunted my insides forever,

If I had been unloved and unwanted all my life,

‘Cause if I'd write good stuff, they'd smile at me again.

If I said nice things, they'd appreciate me more,

And if I told ‘em how heartbroken I was, 

They would fill me in an embrace.

Oh, one day, to be adored and cherished by the masses,

To be loved and needed unconditionally,

Was everything I started to live for,

Got done with sunsets and rainbows,

And gave myself to starless skies and velvet voids, Completely,

Away from anything or anyone that stunted my growth.

I sailed to a different island, 

Made a pact with the devil,

Offered my soul to become a writer like no other—

A true wordsmith,

With a gift for turning anguish into art.

But when the ink wasn't enough,

I used the blood from my veins,

Carving crimson letters into paper.

It didn't matter if I was dying,

Or if my world was unravelling.

As long as my words remained,

Etched in blood and memory,

I would live on—

Cherished, but never loved.

By Nikhil Singh