Moth-eaten


Every night they return,
A new aperture each time.
No matter wool or chiffon,
They rapaciously devour!

Lying entirely too still,
Lest they'd tear her silken skin,
She recognizes the familiar invasion.
Their hirsute bodies crawl incessantly,

Covering every last inch!
Her bedroom fills with the sound of static -
But she hears nothing.
The continuous hissing ceases -

The line between fabric and flesh blurs;
Even she is unsure.

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