Chance With The Devil

Draining slowly from the roots of her hair.
The black water pooled at her bare feet.
Like ink running from wet paper.
The colour melting slowly as the shower head cried.
Her bare body stood rigid in the cubical.
Inky water bled down her body as her hair weeped colour,
Turning the shower handle, her hand stained with melanin.
As the cold air touched her wet body, a shiver ran through her.
The chemicals had scarred her body, blisters formed on her shoulders.
But the blisters were numbed as she glanced into the mirror.
Her hair, colourless and blank. Lifeless and drained.
Grey strands stood like crooked straw in a dry field.
Chemical water lingered on her skin, burning and stinging,
The blisters throbbed, pus bulging under the skin
But her eyes only drawn to the once lively hair that now infected her image.
In the reflection, she stood, empty.
Red skin, peeling and blistering.
Everything she was, now seeping through the mouldy pipelines and into dank sewers,
Dazed and confused, her lost eyes stared into the mirror,
Dwelling mournfully on a better time, her past.

She had been clear skinned and pure, her black hair glowed with life.
Innocence beamed from her deep blue eyes
And freckles speckled her porcelain skin.
She was a child of God, morality danced lightly on her should.
Perfection had it’s benefits but monotony soon corrupted her.
Into the cloudy streets she ran, the devil sat amongst the fog.
A game of chance she played, threw her into his scaly palms,
A trap set in his claw like nails, his bony fingers surrounded her like a cage.
In words it burnt. Her soul was washed away,
Draining, like bloody wine into the devils glass.