The crescent moons at the tips of her fingernails have waned to nothing.
Lizzie paces like a wild dog
caged in her own thoughts.
She howls with laughter,
weeping as the moon rises.
She paws her wild auburn hair
each morning, every night.
Elizabeth Wolff has a secret
fear. (Or hope?)
Every day, her rosy lips
tighten and she speaks less.
Hysteria grows under her skin,
in her silent spaces,
(insanity awaiting birth.)
Madness gnawing at her
intimate places, inside-out.
I cannot stand to see her
like this anymore.
She shudders off my concerns,
her body white and waxing,
wringing her hands,
with their waning nails,
all the while.
She has bitten them to the quick.