by Francesca Lia Block & Lilly Barels
Today I wrote a childhood friend
about the writhing. The howls.
She was tall and hungry-thin with quick-bit nails,
her bedsheets rumpled and stained.
The house was small and dark and cramped
with pain in the walls,
pain under floorboards.
I was so afraid for her
and if I’m honest
of her, too.
with fingernails cutting into palms,
jaws aching from pressure.
Helpless. Spinning. Frozen.
But she shrugged and laughed,