In a dark corner squat

she is folded,

by the bed,

an upturned, colourless Z,

hair caught on ripped anaglypta,

arms like a metal tie around bread,

black soles like ballet shoes,

and toes so cold they might snap

and clatter like dropped pebbles.

Nibbled nails like fairy plates

in bloody beds with ragged frames

on stubby fingers, sucked thumbs

and clutching fists,

twisting comfort out of fabric.

Shiny eyes, bright with fright,

boring blackness,

strings of hair, straw dolls,

tucked behind little ears –

like sheets, mattress-tight –

to listen.

Breath is silent, sparing, saved;

like disturbed silk,

shoulders rise,

shoulders fall.

A bullet-click.

A creak as discordant as a wail,

the sound of a python-squeeze,

insidious.

Too drawn.

He is coming.

He is coming.

A shape more solid than the dark

walls her in.

She feels the burning trickle;

her sodden shroud hugs, clings to her contours,

and the puddle softly creeps

around her cradle,

gently arcing her heels like a crawling tide,

tickling her crunched toes with its frill

and she fills her mind with wet feet and cotton cloth.