Little Pretty Girl, Panic

From her corner the room gets smaller. The air starts to swell and she can feel the tension cracking her ribs. The windows cloud over with black paint, sprayed-not brushed. Clippings of dead flowers rain from the ceiling. The purple petals are wilted and wrong. She catches them all before the fall to the floor and become tainted. These maple-wood floors do that to things, to people. They taint them. 
Her lungs fill up with the coldness of the room. Her feet heat up with its pressure.
The papers she wrote and wept for fly about the room, littering the air and colliding with the petals. She thinks it won't stop. The flurry of fury and the swelling of sadness.

And when the blackness on the windows starts to overtake the walls, it bleeds into all the paintings. All the photographs of happy. It stains the white curtains. She, herself, becomes black. Ink-stained black.

Only with time can she scrub and wish the blackness to go away. Only with scribbling on tiny bits of paper can the room enlarge. The purple petaled flowers drink the water of life and blow away. She wishes to be blown away. But instead, her inky fingers and her cooling feet must stay here, in this room, with the maple-wood floors.