She lays in the dark of her bed
Listening to the moths screaming below her room
She cannot slumber; she must go and see them

They are fluttering madly against their cages
Throwing their soft bodies to the glow of her candle
Long hatched from their cocoons of silk

It is suicide season
And they are dreaming of their wings, laced in decay

Her heart stops as she watches them
Trapped, pressing, beating

Oh now they are eating through their shells
White blood dripping to the silver table

And as she releases them
They commit suicide before her eyes
Drawn to the fire in her hands
Their pale wings burning and falling upon her mouth
The soft thud of their bodies curling against her skin
They fly and wrap around her, all of them dying
And screaming

They are sewn across the cold floor now
Clusters of dead moths, shimmering and gray,
Pieces of a shattered moon

And how she drowns in pain for them
A brittle elegance is inside her
Her silence leaves bruises upon her lips

I will not speak for my darling dead moths
They will gather in my throat and eat my voice
Only the whisper of their haunted wings will remain