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I met her under crimson skies,

A shadowed figure with haunting eyes.

Her whispers lured me to her bed,

Where lust and darkness silently wed.

She smiled, a blade in trembling hand,

A ritual I could not understand.

For my surprise, she cut herself,

Blood, pleasure, and pain,

Is the passage to hell.

Her skin a canvas of crimson streams,

A broken hymn of shattered dreams.

Each drop of blood, a scream, a cry,

A fleeting moment before we die.

In her madness, I saw my sin,

Her pain a mirror of what lies within.

For my surprise, she cut herself,

Blood, pleasure, and pain,

Is the passage to hell.

And as her life spilled across the night,

I felt the weight of our shared plight.

Bound by scars we cannot quell,

In her despair, I found my hell.