THE POETESS - By Ada Hansini

i.

There exist dreams within the corpse, fresh still

And a glass of red wine on her bedside

There, a slight note, and two bullets later

Bloody sheets, pearly chokers, an advent to hell

You wonder, where did it go wrong?

ii.

So, she talks about violence, and they mistake it

For devotion. The child in her aches with agony

The mother in her screams with sorrow

The writer in her preens with pride, knows it well

She sings with the blood of her sires on good days

After all

iii.

Let it be known that she lets her damage damage the dead,

The undead, and those who let her climb into their hearts.

iv.

She does not fall in love, it glows in her

Like the north star: guiding those lost at sea

Swaying pirates towards the sirens

Her love gently takes her hand, and leads her

To a waltz, and to God.

v.

Little did he know, her God died in her childhood home with only olive-green walls as witnesses.

vi.

He leaves a folklore of bruises on her neck

Even so, as lovers, they are forgotten

Her hair knots from when he pulls her close

She thinks: This is how angels come undone.

vii.

Her damnation is her salvation in the asylum

She has eyes on her at night, and blood

On paper the next day when she pens it down

She writes the saddest lines, grows poppies

In place of roses, apples in place of mangoes

Fosters greed in place of humility.

viii.

She grows up in a house of religion, of rot

It makes her a woman

Of anger as tragic as Troy

This has to be the gist: she feels best on her knees

in the make-shift graveyard of her guilt.

ix.

So she goes: Sorry I was late to your wedding, I was caught in a moment legendary.

x.

The letters are written, the thoughts are thought

All when she sways in the dark alone, and only then

Does she hold her manuscript to her chest

You realize it too late: she writes in a dead language

All because she has too few words, yet too many.

xi.

She is found under January skies with blood in her teeth, hair still in knots.

xii.

They say the best films are never made, but I find that the best films are the ones watched under the influence of psychopathic love. Or perhaps, they are the ones that are watched with too much love. That is why, surely, nobody has ever watched a film as good as ours. I imagine the unnecessary strings of pearls you insisted I wrapped myself in, and I imagine the long drives under starry nights, and I imagine the glint of the diamond ring on her finger, and I imagine the long breath you must certainly take during my funeral. The kind of details no one notices, but exist. One more: will you leave as softly as-

(LETTER UNFINISHED)

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About The Author

Ada Hansini is a law student based in India. She is an avid reader and is extremely passionate about writing. She can be found watching the sunset when she is not studying or writing. She is currently focused on her studies; however, she aims to start working on a manuscript soon.

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Cover page by Nicole Hao