She’s waking, and she’s walking out the door
She leaves the glimmer of the red-brick,
In 2009, the first.
In 2023, the last.
The blood is on her hands, and she can feel a white blanket envelop her.
It is the first sensation she has felt in years.
Mercurial and self-loathing are those tears.
No more release in them.
Only release in that.
In this prison cell are mirrors; they glare back at her with such a hideous, emaciated, mortifying
Look on her face.
What she hears seems to salivate,
She, a ****** mouth of a teeth-grinder. Sore.
Did they see her face as the telephone rang?
The woman clothed in sun weeps with fury at her, with a mask of complete, deadly, damning indifference. It is so, so sorry; waves of anguished apologies flooded its lungs as he strangled it. The blade is for you, my dear girl.
As they came together, they came apart.
A hand, gloved in red;something in the way.
It’s a knell for this lady in red, and, oh! How she has been waiting so!
The troops of glares and deafening silence she cannot bear as she races towards them; they stampede over her.
She does not battle.
She does not cry.
She does not raise a finger.
She simply lets the curtains fall.
Ophelia drowns.
