like old bones

There are clawed, bony hands reaching inside her, scratching and digging to get at places she thought she kept hidden. Fingers prod and pull, twisting around memories and winding their way around secrets until they have enough to fill their fists then they pull it out into the open, sharp, ragged bones carelessly tearing everything in their path . The fingers unfurl, showing their wares to the flock of shadows that have come to peck at and feed off what is offered to them. When they are done, the hands close and wait.

There is more. There is always more.