Poetry

The plunging line was― 
going deeper, cutting close to 
the bone. I was preparing 
myself to be martyred 
alive. 
 
Prod me viciously, my 
love, I want to die in your arms before 
the dawn. It should be 
too good to be true 
for you. 
 
Waterbirds. They are ready 
to take a flight. Petal 
by petal, sun will send you 
the message. I am going to fade away 
in moonlight. 
 
Water hyacinth had the death secret. 
Knife me gently. I will 
meet my Apollo in dark.