She was running. The faster she could go the better.
She had to escape, needed to get away from the claws of the wretched. Already, she had tried so many times. Each time she had failed and gotten caged again — held from the world. Her cries were never heard, because no one was near and nobody cared. She had condemned herself: Let her suffer the consequences of her decision, they say. She was along in the dark hole she had dug for herself — to punish the darkness in her soul. This darkness daggered her by day and stripped her of innocence by night. She had willingly gone into this abyss of fire.
The day the hole was made remains a fog. She cannot remember her nails digging the pit or even walking into its fullness. She had felt summoned into her cage, her torment. She had willingly said yes to her doom. Punishment burned her troubled mind. Nothing she deserved better than punishment for her lies. For her unfaithful heart and body. She would redeem herself by playing the harlot for the rest of her life. Her scarlet lips would become the cornerstone of purification by transforming them into what she had made them. They were the lenses she used to reject the purity she had been given through marriage and break the bonds she considered as restraints to her being.
The sound of their voices was a mighty chorus of mockery and scoff. They made her believe she had blacken the purity of her heart. They pulled on her clothes and ripped the straps from her shoulders. Cried at her beauty and condemned her pale complexion. A shovel was offered by the hand of her lover and he pushed her to her pit. The transparenty of his love diminished as she obeyed his command.
Her mout was dry and her throat was hoarse. Her heart breathed heavily, constantly gasping for air. Her knees were bruised from her constant falling and rising up. Her fingers staggered-filled with splinters cutting her skin into pieces. The corpse-like body she now carried burned against her bones.
When the end had come and she had her hole, she stopped the dig. Now she lay away, waking for the first of many to come. The voices in her head reminded her she had chosen this for her life. Her lover had not abandoned her for no reason, but she had driven him away. She had chosen the life of the faithless. All who have a fidgety heart will find their doom in the pursuit of false hopes and aspirations. She was not the first of her kind — the ones with the scarlet lips.
Still she began to believe in her freedom. Her life was not meant to be lived in a pit she’d dug herself. The choices she had made did not need to define her being. Therefore, she began to run. And they brought her back. They sneered at her hopeless dreams of a new life and mocked her restlessly. Each word from their jaws emulated knives cutting her barren.
Yet, she ran. The scabbing freedom set her foots to pace one after another — to launch forward and go. To raise her head and pull her bone out of the put of iniquity. The claws did snatch her back by a leg and dangled her back to her darkness, but she learned giving up was not her answer. Rather, her answer was to continue to run — each and every moment her heart was set in motion.