A peaceful, chronic illness,
Ana tempts and pulls at my core. I sit silent in reverie. I debate the options and consequences of my actions. The cells in my body beg for a scrap, and all that answers is the stomach, its own cry distorted and gurgling.
I travel this russet world on needle-tipped feet. My thin, emaciated shape fears the thought of decay. Yet, I feel that I've already reached that point.
I feel as if I've been buried alive. No matter how much I scream or shout, "I'm alive! Dig me up!" I feel that no one hears me.
Perhaps I should stick these brittle hands down my throat, and purge myself of the infernal diseases that lie within my inner being.
Acidic yellow skin - where does it come from?
I'm supposed to be beautiful.
Jester, Jester, do you think I'm pretty?
The stones under my acrid skin strive to pierce through that thin layer. I'm still not pretty enough to be noticed.
Maybe I'll go for a run.
