She was courting an isolation never known to her before. The walls were humming with a silence that could be felt and seen, she knew she was undeniably alone. Not even a creature or a wisp of something unknown lingered on the air to watch her.
She felt the urge to write and wrote such words of depth and understanding, of the people she watched and reached out to with the bones in her fingers stretching and clicking in her many attempts. They would not hear her or see her grasping hand, she was concealed behind a glass so thick she could trace the bubbles of its impurities with a changing heart
She wrote into the days and nights, needing less and less light to read her words, blocking out the light, shielding away from the windows like a flower closing its face to the dusk. Her finger tips grew soft and pooled out like melted wax, they stuck to everything she touched. She stroked the cool walls with a deep yearning to walk them. Skin untouched by the sun started to pale to a translucent sheen with its visible marbling of blue tinted veins.
Her pupils lost their definition and eyelids as thin as white rose petals claimed their place over her irises.
When they find her shed skin, lost behind a carved chair with its paper thin markings of a woman consumed by herself, with all she left behind, the pages on pages of fiction, prose, poetry and the unknowable love she created on paper,
could they ever know what she went through …
