The Crimson Girl

Darkness pours out of her.

Like black tar.
Sticky and silent.

It consumes her.

And you.

You're fascinated by her grief.
By her apparent strength.
And her obvious weakness.

Her strength is the tear-less face.
Smiling even, almost radiant with darkness.

Her weakness is blood.
And glass.

It gives her a tinge of red,
a hue of pain and passion.

It makes her beautiful and it makes her strange.

But perhaps,
you think,
there is no blood.

As you sit there fascinated,
perhaps,
there is only crimson darkness within her.

And as she lets it out,
perhaps you'll have her after all.

She can belong to anyone once she's empty.