Tone

*A note, a comment, a little hint. Do not read this plainly, monotone, or like a mime. Read with the hint of rhyme - although there is none. Read with sarcasm, frivolity, and mourning...Read with emotion that had been locked into a television screen. If that makes sense to you.
Without further ado:

If there was ever a picturesque "blackened woods"- it was these.
Painted over by an oil so thick that it not only chocked the trees, but air itself. Screams were swallowed whole by these woods. Although you are lost, however no more or less than anyone else, you dare not take off the blindfold.

Being lost, at first, was not so bad. The darkness was not lonely, and it hardly appeared dark. The shallow breathing that was forced out of your deflating lungs was symphonic, and almost companion worthy.

It began with the itch on your nose.

You itched it. Just barely brushed the blindfold. Just barely.
In fact, so barely that it was softer than the air around it, and even the occasional breeze. However, it was so alien that you became aware of everything for a moment.
The oil layers on your skin and the numbing cold as it stiffened on you - but that was gone soon enough.

But something wasn't. You felt the edge of your blindfold on your face so acutely that every thread hummed with a strange life.

You dared not touch it.

But it rubbed on you, slipped and slid across your eyes, and you itched and rubbed your body in hope to distract yourself. But it was powerful. Even in sex you felt the threads over your eyes. Mocking you in their strange life.

Sitting at the roots of this blackened tree in these blackened woods...You've been bleeding out slowly...You cut your tongue out...Ripped your nails out...Still the blindfold lay against your eyes like the marriage band. Stuck. Suffocating.

The shallow breathing had slowed and you heard your heartbeat. A thump, a thump, quicker thump ... then a thump, a thump.

Touching your face, the blood smeared. Your fingers skirted away from that filth. Skirted until you began touching the electrifying edges of that blindfold. You place your hands over your eyes as if to smother it in. Grimacing.

You become the scream swallowed whole.

Aftermath

He's like the ghost in my bedroom, true I can't see him, but I feel the presence enough to not want to change in it.

I feel your breath, tugging on my soul.

I am though:
Soulless, ...maybe it's my heart.
Heartless, ...maybe it's my dreams.
But I sleep dreamless still moreover.
Whispers catch my ear,
although I'm deaf.
And I feel your presence,
although I'm numb.

I'm the ghost to your handling s,
And yet you haunt me.