She let herself fall with the weight of her body, and she left it on the floor. How could she pick it up when she had no strength anymore? Her body swayed and praised the dirt beneath; her body swayed and played that lonely, old song. Tears slid down her face and blood pooled at her feet, but this little girl just couldn’t get up, no matter how much she reached. Let Dusk take her and let God forsake her. She had no more love to give and even less to get. Just forget it, she was just about done yet. Orchestras pounded, and it sounded less like magic and more like tragic. The blood slid, and she did nothing to stop it. Her body praised the black and let everything else back. Let her song be sung; just let her be done. Screaming, she cried with all her might. Dying, she tried with absolutely no fight.
Gasping, she breathed again. Crying, she screamed again. God forsaken, skin breaking. Blood flowed like tears and tears flowed like blood. Her arms and her face were both covered. Dusk had followed God in the hollow lies of broken truths. Her chances were slimming and her demons were winning. They bellowed in hatred and shook in frustration; she bellowed in anger and shook in desperation.
She traces the blood on her arms as the pain wracks her body. It hurts so much and she cares so little. Her life is the arrow that ends the beast; it's bloody and bent. She no longer believes because how can a god care for something so broken. Life is beautiful and butterflies, and she is hideous and hearts broken. Praise the floor beneath her, but do not lie and say you praise her. She is dark and never coming back!
Suicide is not the answer to the question no one asks. How can you pale in comparison to the Goddess of Death when you grovel at her feet? Do not trace my lines for they lead into a dark past with no safe path to return. He has no answer and swears on the god that is so beneath her. She is blood, the blood on her feet. Arched with her seams, crimson slides down her cheeks. The one she can't keep is the goddess so beneath her grief. This meaning is vain and overdone, but I don't ask and they have no answer. Parched with arrays of webs, her crimson peaks and drips laced with poison and dread.
The treasure traces her feet and walks upon the ground that creaks. Trees sway in the distance for their Majesty speaks. Her voice lingers with tainted grief and poisoned lungs. She speaks of Dusk and God, of treason and thievery, of the past and no one’s future. Cleaning the brooms that sweep its noble numbers, lightning traces her hollow humbled. Four cuts bleed, but no one has torn down their holes.
Pain is her Majesty, tragedy is her finality, and royalty is nowhere close. Crimson sneaks in with midnight and blinding light. It does not bleed; it only ponders the grave that she soon will reach. This girl sits and shivers in anticipation. She knows what is to come, but Dusk is hiding with the God she has left. Pain places her body upon the throne of spikes and blood. I do not know, and no one has shown. Because of this, this girl, this child, will surely go.
The girl stands and wipes away the tears from her face. She dresses her wounds, places on her clothes, and walks away, away from the pain, the demons, and Dusk. She has already left God; surely she can leave her Majesty too. Tonight places no room for her on its long ride, but she must now ride alone. When she leaves, she leaves behind pictures of grace, of perfection, of crimson mingled with soil and midnight. Instead she places paintings of acceptance, of love, of beauty in front of her. The girl takes her first step and places her best foot forward...
