My hand on my scimitar

I am in shadow
So deeply inured that, should someone try to withdraw me,
Thier very breath drawn from their lungs
We should die ere we reached the surface.
The tendrils of dark coil around
And though one may stare, my face is hidden by my hair
The lasting impressions, of blades, of words, draw black blood
Until I am weak enough to struggle,
Tired enough to scream, perhaps trapped in this dream.
The stagnant air of this sanctuary cold against my skin
And maybe all we thought we knew
Was never really actually true.