I do not -will not- crucify people, and deplorably, that includes you. But never before have I sworn to not murdering in any creative from other than the gossamer cross standing in solitude on the hilltop. Let ropes of broken promises wrap your wrists and ankles, tightly pulled, a hiss full of contempt ire.

Suspended, your limbs shall be yanked in polar directions, stretching your will to the point of collapse. Watch me parade around a couldren filled to the brim, sloshing around with liquid crimson, the bloody tears that I have shed in your name. Your cursed name.

A rusty dagger, once a sterling silver, breaks a layer of your soft skin, drawing burgundy blood from the new wound on your neck. Swaying at my ankles is the pearly fabric of my Seventeenth Century English attire, stark white in the starless night. My skin is but a ghostly white, glissening in the luminescence of a full moon, hanging in the celestial terrain, a gossamer glory.

The blood on your neck is so sweet, the metalic tang a blissful elixer on my tongue. My lips are coated in your sustaining crimson droplets, perfectly clinging to the moist skin like the finest lipstick.

They say that love is just a history. Our past was once filled with Kings of Old, mocking the peasants from their haughty thrones. What champion are you for breaking something that was never yours? A crown of the most precious jewels rests on your head, the gold melting into your brown locks. The rubies are shattered, the sapphires rusted over, the emeralds cracked to the core. Twisted in martyrdom of a stately prince.

I shall stone you, horrible man, shards of rocks waiting in palm. They are ammo in my name, to penetrate your egotistical shell and break the cowering boy inside. You vain creature.

I can't help but hum as I skip in childish delight around the couldren, my hands waving above my head in happiness. Laughter bubbles to my lips as I turn on my heel, smiling at you in cold malice. I praise your name in dance, mocking you in every sway of my hips.

I won't cry for you.

I lick my lips, sweet blood the taste of rust sliding down my throat. When you leave this world, your body just another empty carcass, I'll still be Bloody Mary.

Art is the expression of the soul.

You have taken my soul and warped it into a sadistic darkness, tastefull revenge caccooning once a lavish happiness. With my trusted dagger I trace your veins. I have confided all into this knife and now I return these bottled up emotions to you. Your silent pleas cannot rewrite all that I have carved into the back of my eyelids, present there even when I close my eyes seeking salvation. And now I simply transfer that to your skin, letting you become painstakingly familiar with all that has haunted me in the dormant world, plagueing my nightmares with your hellish whispers.

A smile etches itself on my face, saying your name. Pardon me, but I can't help but twirl in bubblish pleasure, watching you cry. Here on the mountaintop, where your screams echo off the clouds, I watch you suffer under all that the pain that you gave me. The only difference being, I won't ever plead your mercy.

I sit on the rim of the couldren, holding all four ropes in one hand, the other's fingertips swirling pattterns in the blood. Brushing of the mahogony liquid on my forearm, I take one of the ropes and pull as hard as I can.

Your scream tears through the night and reverberates off the moutain peak, sounding through the desolate valleys bellow us as your right arms is stretched upward. The very arm that you used to once wrap around my frail waist.

Your beseeching eyes search mine for the slightest inkling of mercy. Looking for apologies.

I won't cry for you.

They call me Bloody Mary. You have no flight from this timeless night.

Reflections of past lovers join me in this dance, their translucent bodies weaving the ropes together while cooing laments. They are ghostly memories of long ago, souless as the night. They twist and turn before me, swirling in a grand circle around my clapping form. Their whispy fingers brush against my arms and wrap around my torso.

Bakwards they send me into to the pot of blood, the crimson staining my Gothic garb. Bathing in my pensive recollections is a rebirth, a bloody rebirth into a new vengence.

I rise from the couldren, my head breaking the surface. I don't gasp for air or even wipe the blood out of my eyes. I take careful, graceful, steps out of the couldren and stand before you. The blood slides to my fingertips and cakes my arms and neck. The seams of my dress are stained with a dark burgundy. My face is white once more, but you've caught me red handed.

With meek fingers, I unbutton your shirt, letting the skin of your chest show. With my still wet fingers, I trase my life into your skin, sketching a revered name in blood. One letter at a time, I plot my existence.

B.

L.

O.

O.

D.

Y.

M.

A.

R.

Y.

When you go away from this living world, leaving in your wake the legacy of a monster, a volture, I will forever be burdened with the crimson tears that used to pool in my sorry eyes on your nameless body. Forgiveness is a blessing. But you are a cursed man.

I rotate on the spot, waving my bloodied arms above my head in rejoice. All around me, the faded ones tromp around in late glee, sanctuary found for the broken.

I won't cry for you. Not anymore.

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