Fingernails

Crescent moons decorate her skin,

Where rough fingertips dug deep.

Calm to touch,

Not to hold.

She seized and froze in time,

Her youth becoming

Eternal.

Skin sickly sweet,

Shining in the pale light.

Numbness overcomes her as she

Succumbs to the fall.

Down she goes.

Slipping into infinity,

Laced with a slow burn,

Like spirits down her throat.

With a kept fire in her belly,

Harmlessly sitting in place,

Hazardous tricks of the mind

Tickle at her skull.

Muffled by

A voice.

Silver spiders run down her spine

With speed.

She is jolted awake.

With bloodshot eyes

And bruised lips.

She claws at the walls

To leave a mark,

But breaks instead her own

Brittle fingernails.

Written by Beth Wilkinson

(Photo Credit: Beth Wilkinson)

All rights reserved| Pen & Sword Publishing| Beth Wilkinson| Copyright 2021