# Larva convivialis

Дарина Юрьевна Татаринова

I sit with them and think a blissful thought

What if I stab my neck and bloody rivers

Will come cascading wildly from my throat...

Dark dream or last resort, it sends me shivers.

This fantasy keeps flickering in my mind,

A brutal image, sharp and soaked in red.

A silent scream, a different way to find

Attention... though I'd rather not be dead.

I dream of slit that would adorn my neck

Like bow or necklace, pretty neatly tied.

What would he do - will he be horrified,

Or try to help and catch my flowing blood?

I have to try and see how it'll turn out.

Hand reaches for dagger, stops and weakly falls

Mouth opens, closes - the usual routine

My fingers picked - the usual bloody tint...

Nobody turns or notices or calls.

Is in that stab a bitter dark release,

A fleeting moment of distorted peace?

Or illusory power born of pain,

Where silence screams, and loss becomes my gain?

The words unsaid, they fester in my chest,

A heavy weight that presses, dark and deep.

I dream of a scene, a final, gruesome feast,

Where crimson flows and secrets that I keep

Are forced to light in spectacle of pain.

They wouldn't listen to a whispered plea,

But gaping wound, a scarlet, awful stain,

Would scream the truths they never heard from me.

But even then, would understanding bloom?

Or just more silence in a darkened room?

But even then, as darkness takes its hold,

I wonder if my story will be told?

But even then, what would they truly see?

Me or just the horror, separate from me?