Why were hospital rooms always white? Was it to give us hope or to blind us with hope? I never had found the answer until my father left. The day he died was like a day full of stinging butterflies braided to his smiles that lied to us. My mother and me believed that everything was going to be okay. But it was a lie. Everything was a lie. I could never make out whether he lied when he said he was taking medicines. I could never make out whether he was lying when he said that it was just water that he was drinking and not alcohol.
I didn't know that his pills hid crippled promises that he was always loathed for. His cigarettes always scintillated with my mother's love and his ashtray was encompassed with my poems. He was a mess and when he left, we were. He said always, he did not want a grave. He did not want to die. But, he had to. The bed that he died on, was covered with slain thorns glutinous with our tears and roses built on his despair.
It was a lie. Everything was a lie. I have said this to myself half a billion times already. But only if I hadn't trusted the white walls of the hospital, I wouldn't have drowned in melancholia.
~ From the wattpad
book ‘Come find me’
by Sampurna
YOU ARE READING
Ink And Echoes
Poetry♚ ❛ Juliet, Tell me what is it like to vanquish - When you tossed the coin, And stepped on the battleground, With the accent of swords. Still you stand, Hands dripping of sin. In search of Romeo, You killed, And killed, And died. ❜ { Highest rank in...
