in the same spot
every night
waiting
stares
at the same
blank points
wonders
at the same
blank things
(every night?)
we could ask
if there's a point
but look
at her
graying skin
absent eyes
flesh melting
into uselessness
we know
we can judge
we won't be
asking about the razors
ribboning her lungs
and the claws
opening
up her throat
or even the picking
needles pulling
apart her lips
the scalpel in
her brain
is a waste
of our time
we don't see
the knives
resting
in her heart
we'd be here
for hours
hearing
how sorry she is
for
her self
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