Tiptoeing across my bed, fluffy ribbons and bushels of fuzz,
whispering across my windowsill, fresh crevices , fingernails a buzz,

cotton rows of crimson, creeping through the sheets,
fire crusts my crimson crop, burning at a thousand heats,

Further up above my head, there are workings on the walls,
those were hard to make, they caused cracks, down my fingernails to fall,

All around this tiny room, like tallies for a score,
Down now, we can look to, see the new ones on the floor,

That one is from yesterday, and that one a few more morns,

Waltzing, wiping, crawling, wheezing,
I'm very thirsty now.

Hands feel nice, the dips I made,
in walls, floor, bedpost too,

Scratches here today in wood,
tomorrow made in you.