​She stretched her canvas over bones

Over flesh and blood and sinew.

Spiders swarmed from her old wounds.

She kept her head a space

Where angels would not dare to tread

And sang to herself old, creaking tunes. 
Her ghostly pallor wearing thin

Her hollow body even thinner.

She shrank into herself even more.

An air of rot shrouded her

Miasma and apathy were her perfume 

And she had only death at her core.
I once found her quite beautiful

Seductive, alluring, hypnotic,

Ethereal and rare and new.

But dying herself she had nothing to give

‘Cept her heartbroken wraith of a soul.
“Ana” by Misandry Angie

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