Cold blackness. The stale breath of crypts. The moan of eternity, lost between the bones of dead cathedrals. Wings of bats slash the night like a curse, and from the soil seeps the damp of decay.

Chaos devoured my soul - anima devorata - and the darkness feeds me with the whisper of dead stars.

Behold me: not a psychopath, but the shadow of what once had a heart. Carrion of memory, a nameless wanderer through the ruins of her own humanity.

They're here. No-
They're coming. I can feel them. Crawling under my skin like ants dipped in fire. They're coming to take it all - everything I have, everything I pretend to be.

They'll peel my flesh like wet paper, crack open my ribs one by one, until they bloom - yes, like wings. Maybe then my lungs will stretch across them, raw and trembling like feathers made of meat.

Maybe then I'll fly.
Maybe then I'll matter.

I hear them laughing in the walls. I see their fingers in the mirror.
They promised me silence, but all I get is screaming.

And still-some part of me waits.
Waits to be torn apart just right.
To finally become something... holy in its ugliness.
Sanctus in laceratione.
A saint through suffering.
A god through ruin.

I do not wait for happiness - felicitas est vana - I wait for the end. And it, unlike love, always comes.