The mask is slipping, sin is creeping, there’s a soft clicking.

I cannot find the noise, but I hear a voice.

It whispers to my ear, chilling my gooseflesh skin and silencing my thumping heart.

It’s perverse, dark in nature, and I know there is surely no chance to renature.

Her nails drag down my arms, the clock ticking in time with my chattering teeth.

The mask is slipping, slowly but surely.

I feel my skin sag, and in the distance I hear a paper mâché mask fall to the floor, porcelain shattering.

My face is numb as she peels my mask, the shedded skin raining down at our feet.

My mask is slipping, sin is creeping, and there’s a soft thudding.