she's desperately
rummaging
for the few remaining shards of modesty—
'cause yeah, they'll bite into her palms
but the heaviness of a reputation
is pounding her flat.

blood throbs in her veins.
it's the only credible evidence she has
that this isn't some
sick
twisted
semi-permanent nightmare—
no, she's not lucky enough to sleep.

the room's a child's diary
left out in the rain
and everything she owns
is soaked in memory
manifested
as salt
and water
and black spider stains on the pillowcase.

and they build webs in her head
and they whisper feed us!
so she cries a little harder to appease them—
after all
their silk is lashed around her wrists
and it's the only type of contact she has left.