She waits in the quiet

There’s a room in my mind with no light, just the soft pulse of want and a girl who knows how to ache pretty.

She lies there, bare and waiting, tongue dipped in sin, thoughts dripping sweet venom for anyone curious enough to enter.

She hums to herself in the dark, stroking scars like silk, turning pain into poetry and madness into something warm to lie against.

She doesn’t scream. She purrs. And if you listen closely, she’ll whisper how good it feels to be shattered slowly as long as someone’s watching.