Drip

My dear, my dear young princess.

Is it not the night you fear?

Isn't it the things that bump in the dark, the trembles and whispers and cold skin at your sides?

I am blossoming with dread, with anguish and spite.

For the claims laid on my spirit are neither fair nor just.

I prefer to call it unwise to try and summon me in this manner.

Alas, I am here to listen to your trembling voice.

As darkness seeps between my fingers and the veins in my neck.

It dangles like a pendant softly hanging against my chest.

For your call to justice, to answers is valid.

And the bloodstained dagger you hold was never supposed to be yours.