My Black String

Here in my hand I hold love and pain.

In my hand I hold death.

For I hold my perfect doll.

This darkness engulfs my hand.

It feels cold and bitter, against my hand.

I would swear its hell.

It hurts so much.

However this can't be hell.

For hell burns and my hand is cold as ice.

The ice stains my doll.

Making its heart black as night.

Its eyes now sister with anger from me trapping it in this cold darkness.

I felt the patching fading away as I began to stray from it.

I became lost in this bitter darkness myself.

My once perfect pure soul tainted by hate.

For I was the doll.