It is in the stains

of her pale fingers—

the bitten nails,

the ink that lingers

Stuck in her throat

between here and there

the obstruction that remains,

that haunts her everywhere

To keep from choking

scribbles a line of dark thread

holding back the darkness

that would leave for dead

And when it is written—

those words that confess—

it is the dark satisfaction

that night she will profess