it was a picture
of a girl,
back to me with no face
and very little hair.
she was not diseased
in her flesh, her body
had not betrayed her with malignancy
and cannibalistic bones.

but she was sick in her soul and
her head, marked by the cloying scent of bile and
the shaking of her hands.
her death, imminent, she prayed
that it would not be late;
such a long
and lonely wait.