A folded girl suffocates herself

In the seat of her favorite chair.

Plagued by the sound of a door creaking.

So indecisive! It creaks with her passes.

Now she wants the tough hide

To swallow her breath. The door creaks open.

Her nerves burn like char coal, blood runs like ink.

She needs to birth a portrait—a screaming woman.

Air displaces as she runs back outside—

Her chair awaits her. What she saw inside

The room with the red paint and sharp pens—

A story—unfinished. Dead.

Her chair is not comfortable. A dent had formed

And that is where she puts her face. And the creaking!

It sounds forever. The broken sound of indecision—

A painting never started, a half-written story dead.