Submissions by arayhenson

She sits at the throne, in the highest of chairs, and awaits for something different to strike the summer air.
Her hair is a mess, going unbrushed for days, and her palms are wiped red with blisters from the way her fingers have laid.
She is the tortured and the torturess, as well as the lion that runs from the huntress.
She is poison and black smoke,  mixed with a cruel laugh that binds you and chokes you.
She is the manacles hooked around your wrists, the marks woven in your skin.
No matter what, she is the trembling breath that strikes you at your most vulnerable. ...