Spectral moths flash outside my window

The leeching roots swell and crawl beneath my skin
Pale white forms grisly against my tense, anxious body.
They suck the moisture from me
And I become the brittle paper of a wasp's nest.
I fray and curl at the edges.
The tips of the roots burst forth
Grotesque worms greedily seeking daylight.
Shreds of paper drift away from my hollow form
The inside blackened, slick and molding
The outside dry, sun-bleached, and cracking.
I await my end patiently
Turning my withering face to the unforgiving light
Seeing nothing
Only waiting
To resist would be a waste of precious time.