She stands in the balcony,
cigarette smoke rising from the floor imbuing the air with scathing nostalgia.
A rope hanging from the fan.
The shadow of the rope slithering on the wall like hands of death,
turning, swirling striving to clinch her, while she stands naked, undaunted.
The scars shine in the moon light.
The blood red dripping from the unconquered wrist.
She stares vacuously into the night; tranquil inside.
Her blood flows gracefully into his.
Her vehement, angry, free blood in to his rotten, dead blood.
A proof of her subjugation of the malignant chaos.
The shadow swirls and swirls into the depth of the night.
Are the gods seeing her now?
Have she caught their attention.
He lies spread-eagled on the floor. Does the death of men move HIM? Does it?
It was no vengeance. It was no self-defense.
It was the only way to break the barbs the world of men ensnared her in.
She takes the plunge.
She floats in the air. Looks at the heavens.
“Now gorge at this view” she shouts.
“Look how I fly” She screams, “Let this thaw your souls.”
The scars become her wings.
The moon light gleaming of her naked body makes her look and feel invincible.
She is free. She has tamed Death.