We are murderers.
And our clothes are stained,
With the crimson of vows.
No evidence—just
Two graves and one gun.
Our funeral home,
is unattended,
unlit by candles,
with dozens of witnesses,
disguised as,
your clothes, my hairbrush,
my lipstick, your cologne,
our bed, our closet.
We didn't break vows.
No chairs were thrown.
No hands were raised.
But the sound of shattering glass,
echoed like a bullet shot,
through the empty hallway.
Maybe it was the hope that broke.
Maybe the promise was the one.
Maybe it was the unused cutlery set.
Maybe it was the wine glass,
that witnessed my ring,
on the nightstand.
“For better or for worse”, you said,
but left me stranded in the middle.
You stabbed me with your truth,
that your heart was never mine alone.
I sometimes wear your scent like skin.
And you wear my perfume like sin.
Maryam Shekh
Maryam is a 16 year old poet from India. Her work explores feminism, romance, heartbreak, girlhood, emotional resilience, and feelings too complicated to understand. She's been writing since she was 7, with her first poem being called, "Colors." She's read more books than she's experienced things. Which in the end serves as a reason for her to write.