No title

The pen scratches against the old wooden desk
The wind is singing softly in my ears
Blowing harshly in my eyes
I've been waiting
And waiting
And waiting
For death to come knocking as I lie here
Why do I still hear the pen scratching?
I'm uncertain of the source
Who is doing that?



Wait I'm still here?
What the fuck? why?
The rain is dropping slowly now.
Soaking my hair into the mud
Drenching my coat
Freezing my bones



I can't breathe
There are lights everywhere
Why are my hands so sticky
....
Blood.
My. Blood.


Bright lights?
How did I make it hear?
Where is here?
The angel is singing
His voice so heavenly
His arms reach out
He looks at me
And said
Not yet princess.