Is what the headlines said.
There was nothing else to call it.
Murder would imply that I had something taken from me.
Suicide would imply that I had a will of my own.
They said I ought to be thankful, for dying is a gift
not normally granted my kind.
Even the gods die as their heavenly halls come crumbling down upon them,
dissolving them into ink, glittering like the bloodstain in the eyes of coming generations.
Mankind sheds his skin to remain.
But what am I?
Born as nothing, existing as a paradox, dying-
no, erasing –
what’s never been.
I’ll hold my breath for centuries
while the earth twists and turns under my gaze.
Man clasps his hands and prays for eternal life
never knowing the truth behind salvation,
the harsh metal pounding,
the taste of lead in my mouth,
clogging my senses.
To remain, but never live
is the greatest death of them all
and I embody the abyss.
Malicia Frost, or Henna, is a hobbyist writer and an aspiring novelist from Finland. She enjoys surrealism, sci-fi and horror, and her works often deal with mental illness. More of her works can be found at her Malicia’s Malebolge.