Open. Close.

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.

I watched
with fingernails cutting into palms,
jaws aching from pressure.
Helpless.  Spinning.  Frozen.

But she shrugged and laughed,
then disappeared.