fair-skinned and bleak
she cannot speak but she can write
when the shadows talk
her quill ignites
the ink spills down across the page
her words have volume, but make no sound
and can only be heard
were death is found
a slender black candle flickers
bleeding wax like open wounds
the scent of blood and memory
fills the hollow of the room
pain drapes her like velvet
soft, but never kind
and in the quiet between heartbeats
she leaves herself behind
her only friend, a field mouse,
visits to have a look—
only to be crushed
by her unsuspecting foot
death becomes her slowly
like a dress she did not choose
stitched in silence and sorrow
with nothing left to lose
Copyright @ April 2026 by Jackie R. Doucette
All rights reserved.









Powerfully penned, Jackie. Another amazing write my friend. Nicely done. Appreciate you.
Damian
hello beautiful Jackie this is so darkly delicious a great write ❤️