Phosgene Nightmare Painting

Beyond time, the black one speaks a language of stars. The heavens hang from that throat; a string of burning jewels that turns sight into cinder. There is death on her tongue, and you smile as it slips past lips and slides over teeth to lick the light right from the center of your chest. A whisper reduces your former shape to naught but a few glistening crimson smears across its cheeks. She wears you like warpaint as she rides into battle astride sentences composed to consume. Words that swallow entire universes fall from her mouth, words that the cosmos cannot contain, words that go supernova inside your skull. Psalms spill from her palms and they turn you inside out, your blood and bone falling at her feet like punctuation.