a woman running through the streets, screaming into the night
there were always rose petals by her feet
two generations bound by the same chains
limping throughout a silent house, ax in hand, the only sounds being the heavy thuds of boots and rage-fueled panting.
dirty hands around the neck, even in dreams
following the blood trail, both literally and metaphorically
two pairs of brown eyes meet, and the world stops for a few seconds
a telephone booth as a safe space
waking up in said telephone booth with a bleeding shoulder and an idea
a milky substance poured out of her eye sockets, glowing and bright
she dipped her slowly, and suddenly her back met the checkered floor
a dark figure leaning against a dead streetlight, both of which were not there before
the click, click, click of someone’s lighter