Lord, Obliviate.

I do not want to be remembered

Under the watchful eyes of Godly sin

I want to be forgotten

So utterly forgotten.

Some days I wished I was a folklore

Most days I couldn’t bear

imagining myself in fiction.

Mother, I am tortured

My  colourless bed sheets

leave patterns of tears.

There are no petals watered

And I think I am withering away

I tried to creep up on an iron rod

But its handles are too cold.

It’s been freezing enough-

I think, I have frozen already.

I don’t think I have a hint of warm blood

left in me.