In seclusion,
High upon the mountain,
In my castle,
Obsidian, and forbidding.
Behind the grand iron gates,
Alone, bitter,
My tears made of ice,
Cold, pale and barren,
As the Iron Queen of Dis.
Holding in my closed fist,
A silver cross amulet,
It burns my white fingers.
Forsaken in despair.
Forsaking myself.
Seeing my image blurred in the looking glass.
Cold, grey eyes,
The only clear simulacrum,
Biting into this dead soul.
In God,
I do not believe,
No heaven,
Simply this Sheol,
In obscurity, in the land of the living,
But ever so dead.
Undead.
Unliving.
This crucifix pendant,
Falling from my hand,
Onto the intricate, blood-stained, Persian carpet.
Try desperately to see my reflection,
My anger ricocheting off the mirror,
As it explodes,
Cutting me.
Then it sits before me,
Unbroken.
There as it was before.
I as the lithe spirit in the silvery surface.
No cuts on my ashen arms.
Shuddering,
Silvern tears run out of my eyes.
Alone, the dark creature weeps,
I whisper, mocking myself.
The dull grey light of winter,
Slipping through the window.
It damages me,
My thin flesh.
And I feel too weak to draw the drapes,
Too week to stand here,
Fingers caressing the cold, reflective glass.
I know I hate myself.
And yet I must tell myself again and again...
Until it hurts in just the right way.
I pull away,
From the windows,
From the bitter looking glass,
Walking sluggishly up the spiral of the steel staircase,
Folding my thoughts around me,
As shielding dark wings.
The click of my shoes against the metal,
This helix seeming to never end.
Like my seclusion,
My self-hate,
My bitterness,
My corroding thoughts,
I am the Iron Queen without her king.
I laugh harshly at my thoughts of not being alone.
For once in ever.
Thoughts spin out of the spiders' webs,
Sharp as razorblades.
The only way I seem to bleed.
I collapse to the marble floor,
At the stairs' end.
Limbs splayed out around me.
Lying in the hallway,
I stare down it's obscure passages,
Closed doors,
Lacquered in darkness,
All the shadows gather around me,
Brooding in inner chaos.
Mind trapped in a hallway of never-ending mirrors,
That hate...

And I leave my mind at the sound of a slamming door.
I must save my nightmares for when I sleep.
Cold wind slides over me,
Then swiftly retreats,
Before I can comprehend,
I am running down the corridors,
So mercurial, I fly.
And stop,
The great door.
Where my refuge lies.
My coffin.
To hide in the comfortable places in my mind,
Drifting just above sleep,
Where horrors lie.
The portal opens with a click,
Though I have not touched it.
Blood seeps beneath the black door.
Then is gone.
The wind comes,
Toying gently with my hair and flesh,
Pushing the door open wider.
Windows,
Here draped in velvet,
No mirrors,
No sunlight.
Simply ever-burning candles,
And my casket.
Dust-caked books,
On time-worn shelves.
Pain flits through my eyes.
No mirror need tell me that...
I cannot let the pain in too long.
Only the nightmares...
When I do sleep.
I feel the door close behind me,
My loneliness...
Is the closest I have to a soul.
I run my fingers over the scars on my throat,
The cruciform burn on my chest.
I sneer,
Letting them again be hidden by my dark tresses.
I run my pale fingers over the dust on the mantle,
Letting my hand find the single black rose,
Sitting there,
Solitary,
Caressed by spiders' webs,
And grime,
But fresh,
Petals soft.
I hold it,
Staring.
Then let go,
And watch as it drifts to the floor.
Always alone.