I stand at a crossroad in the forest. I am on sodden ground. The decay has set in.

How can a man marry such sunken existence? How can he care about this life not lived?

Dew beads rest upon my wilting frame. If another bead forms, I will surely topple.

My death is a sure thing. I have wanted it.

Dew beads sparkle, quiver awhile, suspended, before they are swallowed by the sun. Diamonds without purpose, part of a cycle that does not question its path.

I wear a cluster diamond ring as a promise to meet my authentic voice. But I lose diamonds. I must drink the jewels, quiver awhile, suspended, before being swallowed by the sun.

Photography by Jasmine Powell