churning stomach
i'm a rotting plastic bag full of all the nasties i've tried to hide. i have holes underneath my clothes that bleed peroxide. i've never felt understood by even myself, and the best things i've experienced i've trampled instead of cherished. life's cheaper now, it's full of shiny things that shed no warmth. an icepick to an icicle has less sharpness than my form. i haunt this tower made of skin and bone like sweet, sick madeline. something is not right, what is it this time? she'll handle it, she's spry. right?