Cyclical

Each day she awoke and imagined
a new itch; scratched and picked it
until it bled, her forearms covered
with deep scars and oozy sores.

She couldn’t explain it to anyone;
remained silent, staring, her gaze
fixed on the unfinished floorboards
and the rapidly crumbling walls.

Everyone had become invisible;
everything had fallen apart.
She needed to rest. She craved
what the morning would bring.

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RDP — SCRATCH
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