I knew a girl who likes to practice death.
She would stay awake for days, black bags framing her eyes, an eery emptiness looming in her eyes.
After her insomniatic nights, she would sleep until she felt whole again.
I asked her,
"What's more disappearing?"
and she only smiled at me.
YOU ARE READING
Dysphoria
PoesíaIn my head I scream; struggling to hold onto you with love comes decay.
