Hung by aching twine,
She rests in silence.
Shadowed eyes sinking into leather skin,
Like craters dredged into stone.
Born from the trembling fingers
Of a withering spirit,
Colors bleeding deep into a tortured canvass,
With brushstrokes harsher still
Than the coarsest grains of blackened sand
Or the whetted edge of a spiteful blade.

With malice and fervor
She studies the room.
The magnetic draw of her malignant form
Capturing the pensive gaze
Of every visitor in her domain.
What began with timid laughs
Of misguided reassurance
Turns into anxious peering
Over quivering shoulders,
For a hesitant view.
Just one subtle check
To rid the feeling
The feeling that someone is watching.
Watching with wicked intentions.
Repeating a desperate mantra
"It is just all in my head”
Repeating a desperate mantra
“It is just all in my head”