The walls of my lonely soul are stained with the blood of the innocent.
The scarlet streaks cry out against the crisp white walls.
My fear grows as the silence erupts.
I cry out but my voice is haulted.
I remain in this silent prison.
Although motionless, I feel the walls creeping closer.
She looks down on me and is pleasures by my torment and fear.
Her long fingernails scratch at my heart.
But she is careful to spill no blood.
Her violence is her tenderness.
Her hatred is her charm.
Her love the weapon, her beauty the ammunition.
-Johnny V.
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