The sky is crimson rain—
she curls into herself,
ribs arched like bridges—
naked in a cold world
full of spoiled dreams.

The air—heavy
with rust and burnt ****.

Unseen eyes burn,
raking across her skin—
heat grabs at her collarbone,
spilling downward, molten,
slow.

Figures haunt her sides—
fixed, sinister creatures,
hooded in cold fog.
Their breath—low, rasping—
skims the pale fields
of her thighs.

They watch with jagged mouths,
stretched wide—hungry—
she remains frozen, silent—
unable to run.

Beneath her feet,
the ground sears her soles—
bruises throbbing—
purple and black.

Her heart, raw and wet,
hangs loose in her chest—
like a pendant in her neck
about to fall, beating—scared,
fragile, uncertain.

She cradles her head,
not to hide—but to remember
the soft rhythm she once knew.
If you think she is difficult—
just stop fueling her demons,
you don’t know what surviving
is about.

Above her, a pallid figure waits—
too far to touch, hauntingly familiar,
standing between the pit in her body
and the darkness that devours her.

The night breathes with sharp fangs—
She is alone in its grasp, and
she wonders how much of herself
will be left when the shadows
are done with her.