Facade

She is the devil. And she struts like she could possess you. But she can't even possess herself.

Her dreams are of roiling forevers, of darkness and of disorientation. Although flailing against bars of fear that threaten to cage her very kernel of self-identity, she still smirks with her ruby-red lips, knowing and mysterious. With that arch of her eyebrow and that twitch of her skirt, she can make you believe that all reality is her, and that everything else are futile illusions.

But in her solitary moments, within the ruins of her inescapable insanity, she is always screaming. With dilated pupils. With iron tension. With hands clawing against the dark background of her vision.

She's there... tiptoeing against the edge of whatever it is that's keeping her on this side of death. Not the death of the body. But the death of faith. The death of living. The death of connection. A death that is forever.

Sometimes she thinks of it. Salvation. But only for a moment. She hopes for it for but a sliver of a second, squeezed in between sharp gasps of terror and loss.

Nobody knows. It's wrapped and disguised in layers of perfume and her gossamer smiles. That's all people remember. And that's all she'll ever show.