She hasn't noticed me yet. I am still, it is not the time. She asked her kin about me, pointed me out. I am sure in time we will unite. Her husband did visit before; he wanted to repaper these walls. I would have none of it but I have as little say as the woman who claws at me. He thinks the room that abide downstairs are 'pretty'. The cellar walls are not sufficient in his eyes. 'It's torn off in spots, and it sticketh closer than a brother' said she. Tis not any fault of mine, the previous tenants did this to me. She acts as if none of my imperfections are her fault. She forgets her imperfections are as clear to me as her sanity is clear to her husband. He's never given me a second glance; he is too busy scrutinizing every move the clawer's actions; he and the clipboard woman that makes the bed whisper and point. They don't notice me.
Time has passed; her right mind is further and further away. She bleeds the pattern on my skin and breathes the symmetry of the shapes I fashion. I make her nervous. She claws at her already ripped dress, rings her wrists. Do not bleed on me. Are those stains or patterns on that wallpaper, wonders she. She complains of the smell; forgetting her unwillingness to bath herself. I taunt her, I move and I smudge and I consume. I am the illness she is addicted to. She feels me and tries to