When she tiptoes in the attic
the boards creak and groan
and give her away.
When she sits and reads
by the stained-glass window
the dust settles on her
shoulders and her hair.
When she sleeps she talks
about things she cannot remember
when she wakes.
When she reaches for a hand to hold
cobwebs stick to her damp fingers.
She doesn't look in the mirror
for she is afraid
of what she'll see.
She doesn't smile or laugh.
She doesn't cry.