The tides shift within me,
foamy waves crash on jagged cliffs:
pounding, ebbing, flowing.
Darkness consumes me from the
inside-out,
not a glimmer of light to be found, just
sharp teeth and gruesome bodies.
A storm brews,
heavy clouds turning the sky black
for what feels like eternity,
thunder so loud
I hope it kills me.
The dove, my Love, is dying.
Blood seeps through her
soft white feathers,
a dark red stain that I can’t
wash out.
The fire in my belly suffocates,
devoid of oxygen, wicker
burnt out.
Somewhere, a child is crying,
begging her mother to stay.
A fountain of tears, marred by
scars—
the ones you can’t see hurt
the most.
I am dark and heavy and
blood and love, but not
the good kind.
I am the painful, hopeful,
hopeless, bleeding.
Victoria Conway is a jack of many trades and editor-in-chief of The Dilettante.
Featured in Edition 1 of The Dilettante.
The Dilettante 