She's a teardrop. She's the wind. She's the summer, and the winter. She's the cold coffee. She's everything, and, at the same time, she's nothing.

«her name was insomnia, and she was the greatest metaphor a poet has ever written.»

she stares into the mirror- she skips dinner again- she takes single bites from apples as the number of calories zip and spin through her mind as she gazes dully at her stomach. she just wants to be pretty.