It is when a woman speaks, she mostly utters poetry.
It was the night of betrayal. It was the silent night. I remember the gust of wind that swayed me along, and got me out of my thoughts. It was yet a silent night, but I could hear you tiptoe your way.
You tiptoed right onto my place, right onto my way. I was there by the bornfire. Dreaming in pain. Writing in vain. The last writing I could recall. I could hear your shadow scream in silence, scream in the dark, warning me of the forthcoming disaster.
Yes, I knew your company was bad, the aura you carried was my unhealthy diet. I knew something was wrong. I knew you were wrong. But it was as though I was tempted by the devil.
I could feel your rush, even in a hush. I could feel you striding onto my way. I could sense yourcoming very well. I could sense your intensions. I could smell them. I could feel them.
Your audacity no longer surprising me, I resumed my poem. Your intensions making me smile, call it what my vanity, but I no longer consider your existence any worthy. I smile and wait for you to take a step. Wait for your colours to pop, wait for your inner devil to show up.Then, the fire burned even more drastically. Not of the bonfire, but in my veins. I waited and waited, and what I had forseen, came true this day.
You stabbed me with the dagger of your betrayal. And yet, I bled poetry.