The Crime Scene
Lying face
up
On the bare
mattress
Each thread
and knot
Creates
patterns
On her pale
back.
Naked,
every pore
On her skin
fills up
With air
that the table fan
Carelessly
throws at her
At regular
intervals.
The perfect
lines of
Her lips are
traced by
Droplets of
blood
Sparkling.
In the
Lucid
moonlight.
She is cold.
Rigid.
Beautiful.
Death
becomes her.
Photo courtesy: deviantart.com
Damn this is so good!
ReplyDelete@Raajii: Thank you! :)
ReplyDelete