Roses Crave Your Blood

By Rakshdeep Sharma

When I will die. 

My grave will melt. 

I will be cold. I will like some rain. 

It will be dark when I lay there. But rain better be greyer. 

It will drink me. The mother. 

My mother will drink my blood. 

I would like to be cradled. I will be back in the womb. 

Birds will beak me and I will be passed onto your face I am  the white shit. Smile. 

The girl. I died. My heart died for will be with some  weakling on that bed I pulled sheets on. 

Don’t crush the roses I kept for me. Burn them like your  burned my heart.

But it’s no sacrilege. 

The bodies are melting into each other. 

I can see from my grave. 

Don’t come to my grave. 

My corpse needed you the night I wept for you. Don’t disturb my silence. Let me sleep now. 

Send quiet smokers. I like the scent of cigarettes. Let it rain more. More grey. 

My tears will vaporize. I will at last be the rain. Maybe that weep will calm me. 

I will jump in the clouds. 

Smother in the caves of the ocean. 

I will be back in stars. 

I will be accelerating through the blackness. And if you are  wishing. *** u. 

I will be free from all mind all sorrow. 

I will be a bird perching on suns.

Yet you know who will crave most for my blood. Roses. 

I have always passed them with a smile. 

They want to kiss me. They want to fill me up within them. 

I am dying. I have been told by the saint. 

It’s just a few decades left.  

I have not been able to kiss those sugar lips ever since. What about you? Will you die? 

I will miss my shirts. 

By Rakshdeep Sharma