Is my story dark?

The pathetic, futile attempts of this broken creature to find solace in a world that offers her none. She clutches at her dress, a tattered, bloodstained shroud that serves as a reminder of her own worthlessness. The pain that wracks her body is a constant, gnawing presence, a living thing that feeds on her suffering. And yet, she cries out, unable to stem the tide of her own anguish. The hot tears that stream down her face are a bitter, salty reminder of the futility of her existence.
Is my story dark?
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