Stark white sheets
Contrast the enveloping darkness that
Rages war
With her subconscious. Phrases of foreign origin,
Devoid of significance to her hollow soul.
Red ink
Drips without hesitation
From between her spectral fingers
Clutched together in wordless
Prayer. Her black mascara
Cascades down her crevices and pools
Within her putrid
Scars, assimilating with the
Red ink.
Pain screams from every torn fiber of her body
And yet concern has evaded her priorities.
Rather, she reaches absentmindedly to her right
Thigh and plucks a shard of glass from her wounds.
Red
Ink
Moves rapidly to bridge the gap.
Bystanders recoil as she lets loose a
Guttural shriek
Which subsides to broken sobbing.
Singular rivulets of liquid euphoria
Spill from abandoned tear ducts
A figure hovers on the horizon of her vision.
Eyes averted,

Head bowed,
Words mumbled.
He was not the angel of death
Only the bearer of its judgment.
Spiraling constellations
Permeate her vision
While her arms fall limply to her hips.
Red ink
Slips unannounced from her cherry lips
And paints the sterilized floor
With a cacophony of sorrow