Each breathe leaving my hate stained lungs growing thinner than the last.
My bed holds my weight and although I am sinking into the sheets I am weightless.
I want to be beautiful.
The question I have asked her countless times.
All she does is stare.
Her glare burns canyons into my porcelain doll skin.
Each crack she has made seeps endlessly.
Waterfalls pouring out of me with each movement.
My eyes glance upon her blackened figure.
Go away. I don’t want you.
Words I say repeated in my crumbing mind until I collapse under the pressure.
I won’t ever leave.
Words that leave her frail cracked lips.
I collapse and my skin caves in.
A scream escapes my body as my spine exposes.
Each one of its spikes cutting the air into smaller and smaller pieces.
Small enough for me to swallow.
Skin sinks on my hollow bones.
Valleys deep enough to swim in form between my ribs.
My hipbones protrude enough for me to live in the space between them.
All that’s left of me are my broken bones.
Arranged as a display.
Look it’s a museum of my shattered pieces.
Looks it’s a museum of me.
I am an exhibit.
I am art.
Every guest taking a long look examining me.
Examining in awe.
Examining my beauty.
What did you do to yourself.
They all ask.
I didn’t do this.
She took away my skin.
And left me my bones.
So I made them beautiful.
I am beautiful.
Tell me I am beautiful.