Palace of Bones

I have a palace made out of bones. It is white-washed, bleached and smooth and perfect. I can run a finger done the walls, and I can feel the curves the swell and sink beneath my fingers.

My palace is made of sin; the skeletons of murderers and murders, doused in blood and pain and screams, and it takes so long to wipe each bone clean and give it a place in the walls, in the doors, in the windows. Takes so long to wash away the memories.

It is a palace of bones, a palace made of sin and yet it is sinless.