she lives a manipulative life.
she's been made to shun the daylight and make love to darkness; all while her fingertips burn with an undeclared swarm of subjugation. begs for tragedy and weeps when she gets what she asked for, because it's not what she really asked for
she's livid towards the world that holds her captive; the space sitting atop space that unwinds her from the invisibly strong force of feelings that feel the need to unleash every war fought without yielding to mercy.
repugnant laughter rings whenever reality serves it's own version of acrimony: a loose see-through screen door nearly falling from its hinges; testimonies unsung and ignored, but ringing true anyway. she laughs, because it was a silly thing, really: she has known that she must beware the contagion of madness, but is a child of terror all the same. laughable, if she's willing to accept it or not
she steps softly in case her monsters wake beneath her feet, her toes ache but so does everything else. who knows her? her unwillingness to inhale as she should, her wailing warriors from within her skin?
you don't know me
robbed of the privilege to bring solace from within her own blood and bone, she stands because of there being nothing else to do. all notable feeling betrays her and leaves her white as air. the agonizing feeling of her own weight atop the earth persuades her into laying her body down, into sheets that speak of all her secrets without fail.
you don't know me she says to the moon, staring as if it wanted her six feet under or drenched in flame.
i know you,
it says.
you're just the devil
covered in roses.
