Pressure is applied to a mental wound,
Bleeding out imagination, determination,
The memories are painting the floors in blood-
Discrepancy of a tortured soul; spilled ink, spilled thoughts,
Keep it from pouring out (they will know who you are),
She's a monster to her shadow, something so horrid
Even Dorian's soul is pure in comparison,
And Marlow's story ends on a happier note to hers.
Shedding her skin; shedding her sins again,
Wounded warrior in this mind: soldier of the times,
Battling herself, the walls always win,
Swords against her pen, losing to her combatant company,
And she's dying metaphorically; figurative master of the arts,
Beaten to her inner-physical pulp: a bloody mess without hope,
Covering her battle scars, pink marks against pale flesh,
Even the lashings of Uncle Tom's don't appear as blatantly,
And brash words seem kinder than her heart. 
Pressure is applied to a mental wound,
The self-destruction of a mutilation's advocate,
Burning out and crashing, the spilling is done,
Blood-red ink on the dotted line: signed away, contracted, sold; 
Keep it from growing old, her thoughts borderline antiquity,
Ancient soul, looking for the company of eternal peace,
Even the wraith of her mind is caught in purgatory,
And he (yes, he) cowers in her shadows now.
Taking part in her own suffrage; she will die,
Bearing the bareness of her vulnerability,
Weakness is the downfall of the entirety of the soul,
Crippling to manage the fight, losers win too-
Even the misery of Misery doesn't stand true,
And the pain of every love song does not torment her.
Pressure is applied to a mental wound,
Bleeding to death in the light of a mystic moon,
Dark and thick to touch under the cryptic trees,
A place in this mind to die; the creation of elimination,
Practiced by only the loneliest (those without love),
Even poor Basil cannot comprehend this tragedy,
And curses of a selfish wish does not taint this staining.
Ripping it apart; ripping her mind in two,
Her halves become whole to separate entities,
Never herself; the liar wins to those who seek the truth,
Brandishing herself to colder nights (she waited for a knight),
Even the hedonist doesn't find it in her pleasure,
And say she is evil, but in reality- she's deserving of praise.