Among the trees
Lies the shadow
Of a dying girl.

She waits quietly
In the moonlight
For a victim.

She gets them
But she knows that
She doesn't want them.

They all stick
Like grape jelly
To the skin.

She washes all
The wounds their
Carelessness leaves,

And yet,
She can never get
Them clean enough.

But she holds
The scent that
Brings them back,

And more wounds
Appear as more
People appear.

And less of them
Leave as more
Of them show.

She hopes to
Live on well,
But,

If they don't
Stop coming,
She can't recover.