Written on 8/30/2025
> Go backSummary: A figure stands underneath a red hail, blood pooling at her feet...
It's still not enough
A figure stands underneath a red hail, blood pooling at her feet, the tool of her redemption loosely gripped in her hands.
My effort, my will
The tides are rising. Yet she doesn't move, only lowering her head to see her handiwork on the ground — stained on her clothes — sticky on her skin.
The things I did, the things I do
It doesn't move. Its blood has run cold. It's dead, finally. She did this, breath heavy, movements shaky, but she did this.
It's not enough
It's not enough.
It's still not enough
This blood, this flesh, this viscera— it doesn't satisfy. The bar is in Hell, and it still barely meets the standards.
It's never enough
Her teeth grit and grind, fingers reaching to pull at her hair in frustration.
It will never be enough
Her body is tired, her heart aches, her mouth thirsts, her stomach rumbles—
It will be like this forever
—She is still hungry.