These words,
Engraved in her inner wrist,
Bloody with betrayal,
Tattooed into her blood,
Twisted like the knife that cut them,
INSANITY.
These echoes,
Tumbling out of the ink-well,
Dripping with lies,
Staining her fingers,
Beating like her frantic heart,
INSANITY.
These whispers,
Ingrained in the memory of her bleak prison,
Confined in the silken rustle of her skirts,
Hidden in the cruel, twisted words,
Following, torturing her soul,
INSANITY.
These memories,
Resonating along the empty hallways,
Of a place that truth forgot,
Obscuring her skewed vision,
The only reassurance that she ever existed,
INSANITY.
How many tortured souls?
How many betrayals?
How many broken minds?
How many more like her?
How many more to come, now?
She screams.
She screams.
Runs to the window.
Lets the wind howl into her eyes.
Knows only madness.
Sings herself to sleep.
Knows only madness.
SHE IS A LUNATIC.
THIS IS HER DESPERATE LAMENT.
