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”