Lay your head to rest, little one.. this torment pleases not even I.
Somewhere in the shadows of her soul, she felt the fingers gripping her in retribution. Mistakes, so stark that they painted her flesh like a wicked canvas of irony, played out within the night. Sleep taunted her, cruelly mocking every breath until at last her cries were anguished bliss against the walls… A searing, tantalizing greed beckoning her into submission. A weakened state of strength surrendered..
Silence often stretches like a canvas. A blank sheet of mere whispers, where the voices are tangled, and their teasing beats of nonsense design the minds madness. Silence is a creation of wicked delights. A blissful place where the spirit can either soar, or drown, given the knowledge that a body can do neither upon a carpeted floor; alone..
There is an ugliness in that moment of waking. That pitiful, destitute moment of need unmet. Where silence is torn from the tongue in screams unheard, and the resolute chaos that would ensue is taken upon nothing..if not a bare breath to taint the silence imagined..
Give up, little one. It has passed you, by your own delicately stricken release..
..so it has..