There's blood on her hands.
How endearing these lonely nights are. They suck the color from her skin one shade at a time and splash the walls with reminders. They reflect the slim beams of light mockingly and dance along her flesh like spiders.
There's fear in her voice.
How ironic these lonely nights are. They drain the emotion from her voice one octave at a time and fill the night with whispers. They echo against the walls and trickle down her throat like smoke.
There's eternity in her eyes.
How watchful these lonely nights are. They pull apart her sanity one thread at a time and plaster the ceiling with hallucinations. The mirror her lies like a surreal audience and tug tears down her cheeks like magnets.
There's blood on her hands.
A/N:I don't know why I wrote this. The truth is that I got back to my small town on Friday, after the My Chemical Romance concert, and since then I haven't known what to do with myself. My body's in revolt. I haven't been able to eat, I've barely been able to sleep. I've been breaking down into hysterics at random times. I just . . . I don't know. I really hate where I live, if you didn't know that before.
Disclaimer: Anyway, it belongs to Stephen Sondheim. Thanks for reading, really.