life is an eater.

it drowns and buries a soul. it's a souvenir. a proof that we're once that person. that we have that light in our eyes. a debt grave of indulgence. of ignorance. it's a smear that is raw, visceral, and self-destructive.

sofia is afraid. so afraid. so scared.

but the sensation is like being afraid of the flutters in her gut. the tumor in the back of her throat that keep her swallowing and breathing in attempt to take back that life. it's what gathers in the corner of her eye. the hollow part of her chest.

she's an innocent woman with a broken hand. a hand that has twenty-seven bones, each crushed by salvation, by hope. one hundred fourteen of them yearn to cradle freedom and sanity. she sacrificed pieces of her flesh but she'd still be considered selfish for wanting to keep her bones.

why won't they let her out? isn't it all enough? why won't they just relieve her from this life? why must sentence her like this? she's losing her mind here, more so when the metal door of her cell opens.

"no, no, no, no..."