Jul/11

11

Pointed

Her painted strokes pointed like fangs splattering poisonous images across a subterranean canvass, soaking it with the smell of death. Unable to understand the betrayal forming inside the corridors of her mind, she carefully became careless while lust dripped from the cracks in her frailty, filling the floor below with torrid thoughts of temptation. In an instant she fled, a refugee of some maniacal malfunction of her subconscious.

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L.E. Mintz

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