Dichotomy of One (She)

She was a frail thing, skin and bones wrapped up in a crumbling Façade.
She was the only one of the world.

She was always happy.
She was always melancholy.
She was always afraid.
She looked forward to the next day.
She dreaded the coming dawn.
She loved her dreams and her deceptions.
She valued life as little as death, not at all.
She was content.
She never stopped worrying.
She never cried.
She longed to sob every night.

Inside, her heart was broken.
Her mind was sharp as a razor's edge.
Her thoughts were disjointed as a maze.
She saw the true nature of the world.
She was lost in imagination.
She was alone.
She was never lonely.

She was numb except in imagination.
She was detached from the world around her.
She could feel the greatest pain.
She cut her arms to watch them bleed.
She would watch until blood pooled around.
She stopped before she would drown.
She was drowning slowly.

She hid her scars from every witness.
Even though there were none to see.
She knew that her mind was fractured neatly.
She saw the world with empty eyes.
She took it as one blasé.

She did not know what once had mattered.
From this, the thought, She could not run away.
She hated light and all it's censures.
The hated dark that showed the way.
She hid from the world.
The world was not watching.
She looked forever.
She was alone.

She had a name, though it was long forgotten.
She signed her writings 腹切り.
She did not know why she did this, but she knew that it belonged to her.
Long ago, barely within memory, She recalled being named Kiri.
So she called herself this.
There was nothing else.
She had no identity.
There were no 'people' to know her.
She was alone.
She was always lonely.

Her hair hung unkept to the nape of her neck.
It was pure white.
No silver or sheen of any kind.
It had a dull hue, like broken stones.
Her skin was pale moonlight.
With intricate patterns of red lining her arms and legs.
Shapes and colors drawn with a knife.
An artistry of hate and pain.
Lovingly placed upon her skin.
Circles dark as midnight lurked around her eyes.
The eyes were bruised from lack of sleep.
She was never tired.
She had an iris of pale silver, so lightly made it was almost white.
The other eye was an ink-black orb of bleeding shadow.
Whenever she smiled she revealed a mouth full of teeth.
Some broken and shattered, others sharp as a knife.
She was the only one in the world.
She was abandoned.
There was never anyone to neglect her.
She was in pain.
She constantly lived in euphoria.
She was half crazed with loneliness.
She never felt alone.
The world was empty around her.
She lived in another world entire.

Some days she could bear the pain.
Other days she would lock it away inside.
Pain was a monster lurking under her bed.
So she did not sleep.
The only safety was her dreams.
So she was never awake.
She would survive.
There was never an ending.

Sometimes the monster would stir.
She would confront the beast.
She would rage and scream before collapsing in a heap.
That would scare the pain away.
For a time.
But, most of the time she would push it deeper.
She would shove it down deep inside.
It would delve into the recesses of her heart.
Until it ceased to be.
Apathy would reign supreme.
Without pain she felt no sorrow.
Without sorrow she lost joy.
Without joy she lost hope.
Without hope she lost all the rest.

Nothing would lift the fugue from her heart.
Time heals all things.
Time was the worst enemy of all.
For with each cycle of despair and apathy.
She sank deeper and deeper into the mire of tar.
The tar was black and sickly.
The tar was created by the world.
It was the world.
It would destroy her.
She embraced it fully.
It coated her insides.
It gave her meaning.
It gave her substance.
It gave her feeling.
Even if the only feeling it gave was self contempt.

Her body was beaten and abused.
She was damaged.
She had broken herself.
Nothing could break her.
She was a stoic wall.
I locked door.
A pillar of ice.
She could not melt.
She did not wish to.

She saw the world as it truly was.
She saw a desolate wasteland of suffering and hate.
She built armour out of the scars on her wrists.
A deadly game of killing that kept her alive.
She saw only shades of black and grey.
She heard no joy in the world.

Her only joy was sadness, and the music that dwelt within.
She heard her own song.
Soft as a gentle breeze.
But dark and somber as a dirge.
It's notes sored and fell.
Moved her to tears and exaltation.
All played in a minor key.
And like all songs it had an end.
She was never-ending.
She did not end, though she had tried on may occasions.
Something always held her back.
Something stayed the twist of the knife.
But not the beginning thrust.

She liked to draw.
She would draw in places out of sight.
She was the only one in the world.
She still hid her drawings.
She was ashamed.
They were awful.
They were terrible.
They were macabre and vile.
They were the most beutiful things she had ever seen.

She drew in the day and painted by dark.
Red was her color, of a vivid hue.
A long silver knife on the pale moonlight skin.
Was her fancy new brush; her paper and pen.
She loved this kind of drawing.
It slowly killed the pain.
It kept her alive.
She wrote everything she had felt.
She wrote nothing.
It was red.