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